


The Tie That Binds

by Dawnsunrise (sunrize83)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawnsunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine investigation turns deadly for Chris and Vin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

No one was coming.

The gnawing certainty had been growing, fueled by the sharp smell of copper, the warm stickiness coating his hands, and the uneven rasp of labored breathing. Chris tipped his head back, squeezed his eyes shut against the flickering light, and struggled to contain an almost overpowering wave of despair. The single light bulb, their only source of illumination, was dying.

So was Vin.

Despair turned to rage, a more acceptable outlet. "Damn it, Buck! Where the hell are you?"

"No use. Not even . . . the Larabee bellow . . . carry . . . that far." 

The words were little more than a breathy whisper, as pale as the man cradled against his chest, yet they stabbed like a knife in Chris's gut. Vin's skin was nearly translucent except for the dusky shadows under his eyes. Carefully schooling his features, Chris gave his friend what he hoped would pass for an irritated glare.

"Shouldn't you be saving your breath?"

Vin's gaze, hazy with pain, locked onto Chris for a long moment before sliding away. Recognizing but not calling him on his deception. "Nah. More entertainin' . . . pissin' ya off."

"Is that so?" Chris played along, dropping his voice to the low growl that never failed to set rookies quaking in their boots. "You might just want to rethink that strategy."

"Ya don't . . . scare me . . . Larabee. Ya never--"

The jibe caught in his throat, throwing Vin into a series of jagged coughs. Chris shifted his friend upright, wincing when Vin gripped his arms hard enough to leave bruises. The coughing spell seemed to last for hours before Vin's eyes fluttered shut and he slumped backward, gasping raggedly.

"Easy. Slow it down." Chris used the already crimson-splattered towel to wipe a fresh trickle of blood from the corner of Vin's mouth. He pressed the water bottle to Vin's lips, his heart thudding when there was no response. "Vin?"

"Yeah."

Relief left him lightheaded--or was that the lump on his skull? He jiggled the water bottle and was rewarded when Vin took two anemic pulls. "You have to stay with me. Vin?" He sharpened his voice. "Vin!"

"'M tired, Chris."

"I don't give a damn how tired you are; don't even think about quitting on me or I'll kick your ass." Not much of a threat when his voice cracked.

Vin open his eyelids just enough to reveal a sliver of blue. "Not . . . not yer fault. Don't want ya . . . blamin' . . . self."

He curled his lips in a weak smile. "I'll make you a deal. I promise not to beat myself up about any of this--as long as you promise to stick around."

"Been hangin' . . . 'round Ezra . . . too long." Vin's weak chuckle turned into more hacking, then a low groan. "Hurts, Chris," he choked. "Hurts so damn bad."

"I know, Cowboy. Just lean on me. I'm right here." 

Chris dampened the last clean towel, gently wiping tears and blood from Vin's flushed face. He tensed when Vin's eyes drifted shut and his body went limp, but didn't attempt to rouse him. Instead he concentrated on the broken rhythm of Vin's respiration and prayed to a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

"They'll get here in time," he said aloud. "They will."

But he wasn't so sure he believed it himself either.


	2. Chapter 2

_15 hours earlier_

Chris cut the engine and looked over at his friend. Vin was folded into the corner of the seat, arms laced across his chest and lips pressed together as he stared at the two-story farmhouse. Every line of his body language communicated clearly his displeasure--as if he hadn't made it plain enough before they'd left the office and throughout the hour-long drive.

Chris sighed and pulled the keys from the ignition. "Fifteen minutes, tops. It'll be painless, I promise."

Vin huffed. "We're missin' the Friday two-fer-one special and Inez's loaded nachos. Hell, I'm already in pain."

"Yeah, but you're spared watching Buck hit on everything in a skirt."

The corners of Vin's mouth turned up. "An' Ezra tryin' to sucker someone into a card game."

"Josiah pontificating on the social and psychological significance of the happy hour ritual."

"J.D. runnin' off at the mouth."

"And Nathan grumbling that we're all gonna be sick as dogs if we don't slow down." 

They grinned at each other for a moment before Vin sighed. "All right, let's get the show on the road. The sooner we're done, the sooner you can get to barbecuing that steak you promised me."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "I said I'd cook you dinner; I don't seem to recall mentioning steaks."

"You think I'd let you drag me to the godforsaken middle of nowhere on a day so damn hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk to ask a guy why he's swimmin' in shit--all for that Hamburger Helper crap you're so fond of? How cheap do you think I am?"

"I keep telling you, this liquid fertilizer is not shi--"

"If it smells like a duck . . ."

Chris opened his mouth to retort, then shook his head. "Okay. Steaks."

"An' baked potatoes."

"Fine."

"With lotsa butter an' sour cream."

"You're pushing it, Tanner." Chris got out of the car into what felt like a sauna, sweat immediately beading his forehead and trickling between his shoulder blades. He waited for Vin to join him, glaring sideways as they walked toward the house. "Smart-mouthed, pain-in-the-ass Texan."

"Nice to know I'm appreciated fer more than my good looks."

As they neared the front porch, Vin stopped and groaned softly.

"What?" Chris asked.

He gestured to the open windows. "No AC. Gonna be hotter 'n hell in there."

Chris barely hid a grimace. "Ten minutes." He stepped up to the door and pressed the bell.

Vin hesitated a moment longer, then followed. "Damn well better be sour cream."

"Looks like maybe no one's home," Chris said after they'd waited several minutes.

"Or just not answerin'."

Chris noticed his teammate staring at one of the windows. "You see something?"

"Curtain moved, and there ain't exactly a breeze."

Pressing the bell again, Chris then rapped briskly on the door. "Raymond Sinclair? Federal agents."

Another long pause before they heard the click of a deadbolt being released. The door opened a crack to reveal a dark-haired boy barely into his teens hovering in the shadows.

"My dad's not home."

Chris stepped closer. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

The boy hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was soft and uncertain. "Should be any time. He just went into town for a few things. Said he'd be home before dinner."

Sensing the kid's apprehension, Chris deliberately gentled his tone. "What's your name, son?"

"Jonah."

"Well, Jonah, I'm Agent Larabee and this is Agent Tanner. It's really important that we talk to your dad. Would you mind if we came in and waited for him?"

Even in the dim lighting, he could see the boy's eyes widen. "W-well, I'm n-not supposed to let strangers into the house when he's g-gone."

Chris nodded. "I can understand that. But I'm thinkin' that your dad would probably make an exception in our case. Being federal agents, and all."

"Chris. Don't." 

Chris snapped his head around at the gruff warning in Vin's voice. His friend was staring intently at Jonah with wary eyes.

"We drove all the way out here, Vin. I'm not itchin' to drive back Monday or--God forbid--tomorrow."

"I got no problem seein' this thing through, just . . . let's sit in the car."

Chris screwed up his face. "You were just bellyaching about how hot it is. The car'll be unbearable."

"Then here on the porch. I just don't think--"

"No, it's okay." Jonah nudged the screen door, backing away quickly when Chris pulled it open. "You can wait in the living room."

Chris took a step over the threshold, but Vin clamped a hand onto his arm, restraining him. "You sure 'bout this, kid? Ain't no reason we can't bide our time out here."

"Yeah. Y-you're like the police, right?" Jonah glanced from Chris to Vin for confirmation. "Always supposed to c-cooperate w-with the police. 'Sides, my mom always said we should make guests feel at home."

"Your mom sounds like a real nice lady," Chris said, blotting an errant drop of sweat from his temple. The house, though far from cool, provided a welcome relief from the blistering sun. He and Vin trailed Jonah into a room with a scuffed hardwood floor and well-worn furniture. "Is she in town with your dad?"

Jonah ducked his head. "No, she, uh . . . she died three years ago."

Chris felt Vin tense, though the man didn't move a muscle. "I'm sorry," he said to the boy. "So it's just you and your dad?"

"Yeah." Jonah watched as Chris and Vin sat on the threadbare couch. He shuffled his feet, darting an anxious look out the front window. 

As the silence stretched, Chris glanced at Vin, who was watching the boy through narrowed eyes. Realizing he was going to get no help from his even more reticent than usual friend, he leaned forward, his clasped hands dangling between his knees. "School starts soon, doesn't it? What grade will you be in?"

Jonah perched on the edge of a chair, picking at a hole in his faded jeans. "Eighth."

More silence. Evidently Vin wasn't the only man of few words in the room. "So . . . do you have a favorite subject?"

"Not really."

Chris was searching for something to say when Vin's soft question took him by surprise. "How'd ya get that?" His friend pointed at a livid bruise covering the boy's right cheekbone.

Jonah flushed, his gaze snapping to Vin, then sliding away. "I can be a real k-klutz. I t-tripped. Hit it on a ch-chair." He popped to his feet. "You're p-probably thirsty. I'll get you a glass of water." He'd disappeared before either of them could reply.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" Chris asked.

Vin responded with a level stare. "Just makin' conversation."

"I think you embarrassed him."

"Weren't embarrassment."

 _What the hell . . . ?_ "Vin--"

"Awful hot day fer long sleeves, don't ya think?"

Chris frowned, struggling to understand. Something was off, his normally easy rapport with Vin strained. It almost felt as if his friend were speaking another language.

He shrugged. "Kids can be funny. Adam had a pair of shorts he'd insist on wearing even in the dead of winter. Drove Sarah nuts."

Vin clenched his jaw but didn't respond. Chris was still puzzling over the sharpshooter's odd behavior when Jonah reappeared, a glass of ice water in each hand.

"Thanks." Chris accepted his and took several long swallows.

From the corner of his eye he saw Jonah hand Vin the other glass and then jerk his arm back, tugging nervously at his shirtsleeve. He sat in the chair and fidgeted, only to spring up a moment later like a soldier snapping to attention.

"Dad's home."

The slap of the screen door punctuated his announcement. Heavy footfalls thumped down the hallway and a deep voice rumbled. "Jonah! Whose fucking car is that in the driveway? You'd damn well better not have let anyone into this house."

Chris and Vin set down their glasses and stood as a huge man, easily as large as Josiah, loomed in the doorway. His piercing eyes, dark, curly hair and full beard gave the impression of a grizzly bear poised to attack. From Jonah's reaction, that image was not far off the mark.

"I-it's not like that, Dad, I d-didn't--they--they're f-federal agents." Jonah slid quickly out of the way when his father strode into the room.

"Raymond Sinclair?" Chris showed his badge. "Agent Larabee and Agent Tanner from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms."

Sinclair shot Jonah a hard look before scrutinizing first the badge and then Chris and Vin. "Is there a problem?"

"Well, for starters, you can ease off on your boy," Vin said. "He's just bein' polite."

When Sinclair drew his brows together, Chris laid a hand on Jonah's shoulder. "Your son was kind enough to let us wait in here, out of the sun. Even got us a drink of water. You should be proud of him."

"Is that right? Guess I'll have to reward him later." 

Though it was said with a smile, Jonah paled. "I was j-just cooperating," he said. "No big deal."

"I'm guessing this means you haven't done your chores." Sinclair mimicked Chris, gripping Jonah's other shoulder with his large hand.

Jonah flinched, then shied away. "Sorry. I'm g-going now." He stole a quick look at Vin and Chris. "Nice m-meeting you." Then he was gone.

"Damn kid is always looking for an excuse to slack off," Sinclair said. "Now, what exactly do you ATF boys need with me?"

"We've had a rash of homemade bombs turning up in the Denver area," Chris explained. "Made of, among other things, nitrogen fertilizer."

Sinclair curled his lip. "You planning on checking every farmer in the state who uses nitrogen fertilizer?"

"Just the ones who purchase way more than their little spread could possibly need," Vin drawled.

"You gotta be kidding. Do I look like a terrorist to you?" Sinclair sneered.

"Can't say for sure. They come in all shapes an' sizes," Vin replied with a shrug.

The farmer made a move toward Vin, curling his hand into a fist, but Chris stepped between them. "We just need to see records of the purchase, receipt, and distribution of the large order you placed on April 10. You do have paperwork, don't you?"

Sinclair glared for a moment, then backed off. "Wait here." He left the room and they heard him stomp down the hall.

Chris turned to Vin. "What is going on with you? Are you deliberately trying to piss him off?" he hissed.

Vin glared back. "Don't seem like it takes much."

Chris heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Vin, you gotta help me out here. Ever since we walked in the door, you've been acting--" He broke off when Sinclair returned with a packet of papers.

"Here." He thrust them at Chris. "As you can see there, a neighbor and I pooled our orders. We got a discount." He folded his arms as Chris scanned the papers. "Satisfied?"

"Everything looks on the up and up." Chris handed back the packet. "Appreciate your cooperation."

"Not like I had much of a choice. Now, if that's all, I've got plenty of work to do." Sinclair gestured toward the door.

Chris gritted his teeth but held onto his temper. "Then we'll leave you to it."

Vin didn't say a word as they walked to the truck--but then, he didn't have to. He stripped off his tie, unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves with short, jerky movements. Yanking open the passenger door, he lobbed the tie into the back of the truck and slouched into his seat.

Chris rid himself of his own tie and started the engine, cranking the AC to full blast. Vin was staring through the windshield at the house. His expression darkened when Sinclair came out the front door and stalked across the yard toward the barn.

Chris dropped his hands from the wheel and turned to face his friend. "What just happened in there?"

Vin scowled at him, but his gaze quickly drifted back to the barn. "I dunno what yer talkin' about."

"You were deliberately provoking that guy, trying to get a rise out of him."

"So?"

" _So?_ Damn it, Vin, it was completely unprofessional! That's the kind of shit Buck pulls, not you."

"Now yer hittin' below the belt."

"So why'd you do it?"

"He's a jackass."

"Of course he is. But we deal with jackasses every day and you don't make it your job to call 'em out. Vin?" Seeing his teammate was paying far more attention to the scenery than to his reprimand turned Chris's irritation to anger. "Will you stop staring at the damn barn and talk to me? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Vin turned on him, blue eyes afire with fury. "Fine, Larabee. You really want to know? Then listen up: Mr. Raymond Sinclair might not be our terrorist, but I can tell you one thing for damn sure. That lousy son of a bitch beats his kid."


	3. Chapter 3

Chris stared in shocked disbelief at Vin, his mind struggling to make sense of his friend's words.

"He . . . Vin, I realize Sinclair is a loudmouthed pain in the ass, but--"

"He's a chickenshit bastard who gets his kicks hurtin' kids," Vin snarled. "Makes him feel like a real big man."

The force of his teammate's anger, so out of proportion to the circumstances, bewildered Chris. Vin was normally slow to judge, willing to extend the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. What could possibly have turned his open-minded friend into this hothead?

"We spent maybe ten minutes with the man. That's hardly enough time to have him tried and convicted." He kept his tone patient, reasonable, but it only seemed to infuriate Vin.

"You sayin' you don't believe me?"

"I'm saying one brief conversation is thin evidence to accuse someone of child abuse."

Vin slumped back in his seat. "All the evidence in the world was starin' ya in the face, Chris. You just weren't lookin'."

The soft, world-weary tone, so abruptly devoid of anger, pulled Chris up short. He couldn't deny that his focus had been fixed on their investigation. Even while trying to set Jonah at ease, he'd been examining their surroundings, looking for anything that might implicate Sinclair as their bomber. When Sinclair finally walked through the door, well, it wasn't Jonah that Chris had been trying to read.

The growing sense of guilt must have registered on Chris's face. Vin's mouth turned up in a self-deprecating smile. "Don't be too hard on yerself, Cowboy. Like they always say, it takes one to know one."

Still feeling as if he were running to catch a fast-moving train, it took him a moment to fully grasp Vin's meaning. 

The oblique admission hit Chris like a sucker punch to the gut. Both Nathan and Josiah had privately expressed concern that Vin's troubled childhood had included abuse--Nathan on the basis of physical scars, Josiah sensing wounds more spiritual in nature. Since Vin rarely spoke of the years following his mother's death, their suspicions had never been substantiated. Until now.

He stared at Vin, speechless, until his friend turned away, a flush rising on his cheeks. "I'm not sure what to say to that," Chris admitted.

"Nothin' to be said. I'm the same man I was a minute ago; it don't change a thing."

"It's a piece of who you are, how--"

"It ain't who I am!" Instantly Vin's fury returned, as hot and sharp-edged as before. "It's just somethin' that happened to me." He shook his head, perhaps reading the pain in Chris's eyes, and calmed. "Like I told you, it doesn't matter."

 _You're wrong, Cowboy,_ Chris thought, his throat tight. _It matters a helluva lot more than you know._

The sound of Vin's door opening snapped him from his reverie. "Vin? What are you doing?"

Vin slid out of the car and leaned back in through the open doorway, his face set. "Goin' to talk to Sinclair."

Chris yanked open his own door and got out. He braced his palms on the hood, barely registering the scorching heat. "No, you're not."

Vin returned his protest with a cool stare. "Yeah, I am." He held up a hand before Chris could argue. "I ain't stupid, Larabee. I'm not about to go chargin' in there an' work him over." He snorted. "Though it surely would feel fine to plant my fist somewhere . . . vital."

The flicker of wry humor eased Chris's concern but he didn't back down. "You're not gonna accomplish anything. As soon as we get to the ranch I'll make some calls, get social services in on this."

Vin walked around to Chris's side of the truck and leaned against the fender. "Chris . . ." He trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek and surveying the barn with haunted eyes. "Guys like Sinclair . . . Worst thing ya can do is get 'em riled. Even when it's not yer fault . . . you still pay the price."

Chris caught his breath, unable to shut out the images Vin's words conjured. Pictures of a skinny little kid with bottomless blue eyes and stubborn determination wielded like a red flag before a bull.

Vin tore his gaze from the barn and looked at Chris. "I'm not gonna let that kid take the fallout fer me sassin' his pa. If that means I gotta eat crow . . ." He shrugged.

"I'll go with you."

"No." Vin thrust out his chin, but there was gratitude in his eyes. "Two'll seem like a threat. Best I go alone."

Chris gritted his teeth. "I don't like it."

"You think I do? Hell, last thing I want to do to that bastard is kiss his ass. But it ain't fer me I'll be doin' it." He laid a hand on Chris's arm. "Trust me."

And for that, Chris had no defense. "Five minutes. You're not out of there, I'm coming after you."

Vin tipped his head in acceptance and cut across the field toward the barn. Chris watched him go, an unpleasant twisting sensation in his stomach that he couldn't name.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Vin heard Sinclair from a distance, the deep voice loud and rough with anger. He paused, one hand on the large sliding door.

" . . . You've gotta be the most worthless excuse for a human being on this planet. Don't you have a single brain cell in that head? I don't know why in hell I put up with you . . ."

Vin pressed his forehead to the peeling paint, rocked by a flood of memories.

_Listen to me, you little shit! You're nothing but a pain in the ass who's not worth the food it takes to keep you alive._

_You've got no kin; nobody gives a damn whether you draw another breath, so you'd best shut your mouth. No one would notice if you just up and disappeared._

_You're not a member of this family; you're a worthless little bastard that nobody else wants._

He squeezed his eyes shut, dismayed by how deeply the words could cut even after all these years. For a moment he was that lost little boy again, powerless and utterly alone. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. He was a grown man, no longer at the mercy of cruel words and brutal fists. He had the strength and the tools to defend himself--better yet, he had six ornery cusses ready to jump in and make his battles their own.

He had family.

Sliding open the heavy door, he stepped inside. Sinclair cut off his tirade and both he and Jonah spun to face Vin. Jonah's eyes widened and his hand shot up to cover his mouth. But not fast enough to prevent Vin from seeing his split lip.

Rage rose up so quickly and so fiercely that Vin could hear the blood rushing in his veins. It took every ounce of his self-control not to throw himself at Sinclair. Instead, he forced open his hands, which had reflexively curled into fists, and slowed his breathing.

"What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I answered all your questions." Sinclair plowed toward him, his expression more guilty than belligerent.

Vin raised both hands. "No more questions. Just came to apologize." The words stuck in his throat, but he choked them out.

"Apologize?" Folding his arms, Sinclair's tone dripped skepticism. 

Vin stole a glance at Jonah, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. "Yeah. My boss just chewed my ass for bein' disrespectful."

Sinclair curled his lip. "Damn straight you were. You had no right speaking to me that way, especially in my own house."

It felt as if he were holding onto his temper by his fingernails. Vin knew Chris was right, that the only thing he'd accomplish at this point was more trouble for Jonah. But it was damn hard not to give Sinclair a busted lip to match his son's.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry for that. And we're both sorry for the way we forced Jonah to let us in the house. It weren't right fer us to use our badges like that. Kid didn't think he had a choice."

Jonah's gaze, filled with heartbreakingly intense surprise and gratitude, latched onto Vin.

"You don't need to concern yourself. That's between me and Jonah. Now if you don't mind . . ."

"Seems like maybe I should be concerned," Vin said, gesturing toward Jonah's lip.

Jonah quickly ducked his head, peering up at Vin through his lashes. "I'm fine, Agent Tanner. You should go now." _Please, go,_ his eyes pleaded.

"You heard him," Sinclair said. "Now get off my property."

Vin pressed his lips together to hold back a retort. As he turned to leave, he saw Jonah cast a panicked glance toward a stack of crates about eight feet behind Sinclair. The lid of the top crate was slightly ajar, straw and something shiny and black protruding. The sharpshooter in Vin immediately identified it: the muzzle of an automatic weapon.

He covered his surprise, hesitating only for an instant, but the small catch in his stride was enough. Sinclair came up fast behind him, an arm around his throat and cold steel pressed to his temple.

"On second thought, Agent Tanner, maybe it would be better if you stuck around a while longer."

"That's mighty hospitable of you, but I'd hate to put you out."

"Too late for that. You should've minded your own business. Jonah, go get me some rope."

Sinclair dragged him backward, deeper into the barn and away from the tantalizing spill of sunlight at the open door. Half of Vin hoped to see Chris appear in that doorway, the other half prayed he'd stay clear.

Jonah remained frozen in place, pale and rigid. "Dad, I don't think--"

"You're damn right; you never do. Now do as I tell you and go get the fucking rope!"

Jonah cringed. "But, I--"

"You'd better listen to me, you little shit, or I'll . . ." Sinclair swiveled toward his son, the arm around Vin loosening and the gun wavering.

Vin ducked and twisted, wriggling free. He scrabbled for the gun tucked at the small of his back, but had to abort the move and lunge at Sinclair when the man once again tried to bring his own weapon to bear. They hit the dirt floor in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling, kicking, and punching. 

What Sinclair lacked in agility, he made up in bulk. He backhanded Vin with the gun barrel, a hit to the temple that had black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Vin's disorientation allowed Sinclair to roll on top of him, forcing him to fight for air as they both grappled for the gun.

As the gun dipped relentlessly toward Vin's chest, Sinclair shifted his weight. Reacting on instinct, Vin brought his knee up between the big man's legs. Sinclair howled as Vin shoved him aside and rolled to his feet, pulling his own weapon.

"Freeze," he ordered between gasps. 

Sinclair had also regained his feet, hunched over with the gun dangling from his hand. He went motionless, his face purple with pain and rage.

"Drop it." A flicker from the corner of his eye told Vin Jonah was nearby.

Sinclair slowly straightened. "No."

"Your boy's standin' right over yonder. You do what I say and he'll still have a pa."

"There's no way I'm going to prison."

Vin tightened his finger on the trigger. "Mister, I've killed men who gave me a lot less reason. Now drop it, or I'll drop you."

Sinclair hesitated, then bared his teeth. "Go to hell."

Time slowed. Sinclair's arm came up. As Vin squeezed the trigger, there was a heart-stopping blur of motion, followed by Jonah's desperate cry.

"Don't shoot him!"

Startled, Vin pulled his shot.

Sinclair didn't.

One beefy arm knocked the boy aside. A pop, a flash, and Vin was on his back. He blinked at the high ceiling, transfixed by a large spider web that stretched between the rafters and the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

 _Bastard shot me,_ he thought muzzily.

Then the pain crashed in like an enormous black wave and carried him under.


	4. Chapter 4

_Never should've let him go in there._

Chris consulted his watch for the third time in as many minutes, pacing back and forth beside the truck. Sweat dampened the hair that fell across his forehead and plastered the white dress shirt to his back. "Stubborn, pig-headed Texan. There isn't an ounce of self-preservation in your mangy hide."

Except that wasn't fair, and Chris knew it. Vin was cautious, deliberate, considering a problem from every angle before offering a solution. Chris had hired him for his sharpshooting skills, never guessing that Vin would turn out to be a steadying force against Buck and J.D.'s more impulsive natures. The only time he threw caution to the wind was when someone else's life hung in the balance.

Which was why Chris was so damn worried.

Vin might insist that his childhood was irrelevant, but his actions had already proven otherwise. Chris felt off balance, and not only from Vin's flippant confirmation of the abuse they'd all suspected.

Vin had _known_. 

Chris had gone over the last hour in his head, examining every look exchanged, every word spoken, with a fresh eye. He considered Vin's reluctance to step inside the house, the way his teammate had studied Jonah with a wariness usually reserved for dangerous felons, the instant intensity of his dislike for Sinclair. Chris had dismissed it; chalked it up to Vin dragging his feet over a job he'd never wanted a part of in the first place. But now . . . 

_Like they always say, it takes one to know one._

Almost immediately, Vin had recognized a kindred spirit in Jonah. And Chris feared that the emotional connection would cloud Vin's judgement. He wasn't concerned for Vin's personal safety; he had no doubt his friend could take the bastard in a fair fight, despite Sinclair's size. But professionally, his teammate could wind up with a formal reprimand, be brought up on charges, or even lose his job.

If what Vin claimed about Sinclair was true, Chris would be first in line to nail him to the wall. But not at Vin's expense.

His watch said Vin had been gone nearly ten minutes when Chris pocketed his keys and started for the barn. He'd taken only a few steps when the crack of a gunshot sent a flock of crows squawking for the clouds and him reaching instinctively for his weapon.

He ran around the corner of the barn, nearly colliding with Jonah, who was pale and wild-eyed with panic. He grabbed Chris's arm, tugging him toward the door.

"Help! You g-gotta come quick! There's been an accident!"

Chris let Jonah propel him a few steps before digging in his heels.

"C'mon, c'mon!" Jonah pulled harder, focused only on the open door.

"Jonah, stop!" Chris grabbed him by the shoulders, distantly aware his fingers were digging into the boy's thin arms. "Slow down. What happened?"

"Your f-friend and my dad, they . . . they were yelling at each other. M-my dad h-hit him and they started f-fighting. The gun w-went off!"

"Vin's gun? Are you telling me _Vin_ shot your dad?"

"It . . . it was an accident." Jonah's gaze skittered away, and he again began tugging Chris forward. "He s-said come quick."

"Shit." Shrugging free of the boy's grasp, Chris yanked his cell phone from his pocket. "Here. Call 911."

He jogged up to the barn door, pausing to listen. When only silence greeted him, he moved cautiously inside, hovering near the opening as his eyes adjusted to the muted light.

Scanning the area for Vin, he walked closer to the body sprawled on the floor. Just as his eyes took in the long hair and slim build, he heard a familiar click and something hard nudged the base of his skull.

"Drop it." Sinclair at his back, his voice a smug purr. "And keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Chris hesitated, watching blood soak the dirt in an ever-widening circle. Vin's eyes were closed, his skin gray. Fury rose up in Chris. If Sinclair had already killed Vin, then what did it matter-- 

"Now, Agent Larabee. Your friend needs you breathing."

Sinclair's command and the almost undetectable rise and fall of Vin's chest cooled Chris's anger to a manageable level. He tossed down his gun, glaring at Sinclair as the man circled in front of him. "He's alive. Let me call an ambulance and you can still avoid a murder charge."

"It's a little late for that. There's a lot more at stake here than the life of one federal agent."

Chris gritted his teeth. "Really. Feel like sharing?"

"Your friend barged in here uninvited. Unfortunately, he got an eyeful before I could send him on his way." Sinclair tipped his head at a stack of crates.

Chris nearly groaned aloud when he recognized the contents. They'd cleared Sinclair of the bombings, and all the while he had a barn full of illegal firearms. There were enough guns for a small army in those crates.

"Twenty-four hours," Sinclair said, shaking his head. "If you'd just showed up a day later those guns would've been safely in the custody of their new owner and Jonah and I would've been on our way to a new life in another state." 

He motioned with the gun. "On the ground, face down, and spread 'em." When Chris didn't move, Sinclair edged over and swung the gun downward, pointed at Vin's head. "Like you said, he's alive. Do as you're told and he might stay that way."

Chris complied, cheek pressed to the dirt and gaze glued to Vin while Sinclair patted him down, pulling his handcuffs from his pocket. 

"All right, get up--slowly." When Chris regained his feet, Sinclair toed Vin roughly with his boot. "Pick him up."

Ever mindful of the gun leveled at his head, Chris knelt beside his friend. The bullet wound was high on the right side of Vin's chest, still oozing blood at an alarming rate. Hooking his arms under Vin's he gingerly pulled his teammate to a sitting position. Vin made an inarticulate sound of protest and his head thudded onto Chris's shoulder.

"Relax. I've got you, pard." Running a soothing hand down Vin's back, Chris's heart sank. No exit wound.

"I said pick him up, not feel him up," Sinclair sneered.

"The bullet's still in there. He needs a doctor," Chris growled, glaring up at him.

"Yeah, well, you'll just have to do the best you can. Jonah!" Sinclair kept his gaze and the gun trained on Chris as he bellowed for his son. "Stop sniveling and get over here."

Chris had nearly forgotten the boy. Jonah emerged from the shadow of an unoccupied stall, Chris's phone still clutched in his hand. He cringed when his father snatched it and thrust a set of keys at him.

"Unlock the cellar."

Jonah's gaze darted between Vin and Chris and tears spilled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said to Chris. "I c-couldn't--"

" _Now!_ " Sinclair roared.

Jonah nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to obey. Chris turned his attention back to Vin, torn between sympathy for the kid and cold anger for the way he'd been set up.

"Pick him up. I don't have all day," Sinclair said.

He tried to haul Vin upright, but his friend's legs buckled and he nearly slithered out of Chris's grasp. For several minutes he struggled to support 170-odd pounds of unresisting sharpshooter--much to Sinclair's amusement, if his smirk was any indication.

"Sorry, pard," he finally murmured, and tipped Vin across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Disoriented and in pain, Vin fought against his restraining grip. "Easy, easy. It's me, Vin. It's Chris."

"Chris?" Vin choked on the name, his breathing harsh and uneven. "Don't . . . don't feel so good."

"I know. Try to stay with me." Chris grimaced at the warm stickiness spreading across his back. If he didn't get the bleeding stopped, Vin wouldn't last much longer.

"That way." Sinclair motioned for Chris to follow Jonah's path. 

He spied the boy standing at the other end of the barn, shuffling his feet. As they drew nearer, Chris saw that Jonah was standing next to an open trap door in the barn's floor. Rickety wooden stairs descended into blackness. He stopped, turning slowly to Sinclair.

"You don't really expect me to take him down there."

Sinclair smiled. "You ATF boys are real sharp, aren't you?"

Chris eased Vin to the ground. "Sharp enough to realize that cellar is a one-way ticket for Vin. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you'll bring down on you and Jonah if he dies? We're Federal agents; you'll be on the bulletin board of every police department in the country."

The smile slid off Sinclair's face as something dangerous and a little bit crazy flickered in his eyes. "And that's the only reason I haven't put a bullet in your heads. Now you two are going to sit tight down there until I conclude my business. And then-- _if_ you behave yourselves, and _if_ I'm feeling generous--I just might make an anonymous phone call to the people who give a damn whether you keep breathing." 

"You son of a bitch." Chris didn't even realize he'd started for Sinclair until a bullet flew past his right ear.

"Yeah, but I'm the son of a bitch with the gun." Sinclair inclined his head toward Vin. "Pick him up."

Furious with Sinclair and his own impotence, Chris had no choice but to yield. Vin was attempting to push himself upright, his eyes open but unfocused. Chris laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Hang on, Vin. You need to let me--"

Bright agony erupted at the back of Chris's head. Vin slipped from his grasp and Chris toppled onto his side, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Two brown work boots appeared in his field of vision. The last thing he heard before losing the battle to remain conscious was Vin's low moan and the cold amusement in Sinclair's voice.

"Been wanting to do that ever since I met you, Agent Larabee."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Somebody had smashed his head into pieces. There was no other explanation. 

Chris cracked open his eyes, wincing when even the dim light pierced his head like an ice pick. Pushing himself upright with shaky arms, he had to close his eyes and breathe slowly through his mouth until the wave of nausea passed.

Cautiously, he assessed his surroundings. A single light bulb burned overhead and a few shelves lined cinderblock walls. As he fingered the lump on the back of his head and stared at the wooden steps leading to a trap door in the ceiling, his muddled brain abruptly cleared. _Vin!_

He turned too quickly and paid the price, almost blacking out when the throbbing beat in his head became a percussion ensemble. Vin lay sprawled on his stomach about five feet away, utterly, frighteningly still. For a moment Chris couldn't move, dreading what he might find when he did.

He didn't even notice the chain until he began crawling toward Vin. The jingle of metal and a pinch at his ankle broke through his single-minded concern and he sat back, confused. "What the . . . ?"

Hitching up his right pant leg, Chris snarled at the handcuff clamped just above his foot. The other cuff was threaded through a five-foot length of chain securely fastened to one of the support beams. He quickly realized he'd be able to reach Vin, but not the stairs.

"You're dead, Sinclair," he muttered. "It's just a matter of time."

He placed a tentative hand between Vin's shoulder blades and heaved a sigh of relief at the regular, if rapid, heartbeat. As carefully as he rolled Vin onto his back, his friend still moaned and tried to curl into a ball.

"Shhh. Easy, Vin. Let me check you over." Chris mimicked the routine he'd watched Nathan perform time and again when one of them was injured, running his hands down Vin's arms, legs, and ribs. Palpating his belly and lower back. 

From what he could tell, Vin hadn't sustained any additional injuries at Sinclair's hands. The wound was still steadily oozing blood, though the flow had slowed. Chris was pretty sure that the bullet had broken a couple of ribs--he'd felt them give a bit under the pressure of his fingertips and Vin nearly took his head off with a reflexive swing of his fist.

Sinclair's reluctance to kill them apparently didn't extend to offering help. The room was stripped bare, the shelves empty. Chris looked at his watch: 7:18. Realistically, it would be at least 18 hours before they could expect a rescue, and then only if Sinclair followed through on making that phone call. Chris wasn't so sure the odds of that happening were in his and Vin's favor. 

With a hard tug, he pulled open Vin's dress shirt, sending buttons flying. He ripped away the sodden tee shirt, exposing torn and bleeding flesh. Eyelids fluttering open, Vin groaned and batted at Chris's hands when he cleared as much of the debris as possible from the wound.

"Tryin' . . . to kill me?"

Chris mustered a thin smile. "If I'd wanted you dead, Tanner, it would've happened a long time ago."

Vin studied his face, and Chris was relieved to see clarity in his solemn gaze. "Bad?"

"Not good." Chris peeled off his own shirt and began folding it into a pad. "Not much to work with. And I'm no Nathan."

"You'll do . . . do the best ya can." He caught Chris's hand. "Jonah?"

Chris jerked away, unreasonably angered. "Damn it, Vin, you took a bullet in the chest and there's not a thing I can do about it! Why can't you for once worry about yourself instead of everyone else?"

Vin just looked at him. "Jonah."

Chris blew out a gusty breath, shoulders tightening. "The kid's fine. In fact, he did a bang-up job of helping his father get the drop on me."

"Didn't have . . . a choice."

"There's always a choice." Chris didn't try to smooth the edge in his voice.

"Easy to say . . . when you've always had one."

That expression was back, the same raw vulnerability Chris had seen mirrored on Jonah's face. He looked away, swallowing hard, and resumed folding the shirt.

Vin scanned the room. "Where?"

"Cellar under the barn. Tucked out of the way so Sinclair can finish conducting his _business _."__

__"When?" Vin's voice had sunk to a raspy whisper; he was fading fast._ _

__"Tomorrow. He says he'll call the authorities and let 'em know where we are once he's made a getaway. Right now that's looking like our best chance."_ _

__"We're . . . screwed."_ _

__It startled a laugh from Chris, genuine if a little weak. He sobered. "Gotta stop that bleeding, Cowboy. Only way I know to do it is pressure."_ _

__Vin's gaze drifted to the makeshift bandage. "Best not hold back then."_ _

__Chris nodded, his throat too tight for speech. He straddled Vin, pinning his friend's arms against his torso. "Here goes."_ _

__Gritting his teeth, he placed the pad over the bullet wound and pressed down firmly with the heels of both hands. Vin stiffened, dragging in a great, gulping breath and squeezing his eyes shut. Tears trickled down the sides of his face as he shuddered hard, then went limp._ _

__Chris didn't flinch, despite the sticky warmth oozing between his fingers. He held the steady pressure until the bleeding stopped and his arms trembled with fatigue. And he imagined all the ways he'd make Sinclair sorry he'd ever met Vin Tanner._ _


	5. Chapter 5

Someone was angry.

A voice penetrated the darkness with short, harsh bursts of sound. Vin couldn't seem to understand exactly what was being said, but he could easily read the fury beneath. Yep, someone was seriously pissed.

Chris. Chris was pissed.

Vin frowned, fighting to open leaden eyelids. He squinted at a series of wooden beams that eventually resolved into a ceiling. Movement flickered at the edge of his vision, and with some effort he turned his head. Chris was pacing in front of some shelves, occasionally pausing to run his fingers through his hair. Vin watched him stomp back and forth, trying to decipher words that flitted like butterflies just out of his reach. And then, gradually, they began to make sense.

". . . gonna string the son of a bitch up by his balls and then we'll fucking see who's feeling generous. Stupid shit's nothing but a cowardly bastard who--"

"Chris."

Vin was startled by the pathetically weak croak masquerading as his voice. Chris whipped his head around and staggered, grimacing and grabbing onto a shelf. 

Vin lurched upright. "Chris!" 

Pain exploded in his chest, sucking all the air from his lungs. He wrapped his arms around himself and curled over, gasping like a fish. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, his whole world the white-hot agony that pulsed with each frantic beat of his heart. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and tipped him backward, guiding him to the hard floor.

Chris materialized over him, his brows drawn together and his mouth a tight, grim line. "Are you crazy, Tanner? What the hell are you trying to do--save Sinclair the trouble by killing yourself?"

Somehow Vin managed to knot his fingers in Chris's T-shirt. "What's wrong . . . with you?" 

"What's wrong with me? Hate to break it to ya, pard, but you're the one collecting bullets."

"Y'know what I mean. Nearly fell." Vin ground out the words between clenched teeth.

"Just got a little dizzy. Sinclair cold-cocked me up in the barn." Chris pulled aside the makeshift bandage on Vin's chest, his scowl deepening. "Damn it, Vin, you're bleeding again."

"Sorry." Vin tried for sarcastic, but his wispy reply just sounded pitiful.

"It's not too bad. Hang on." Chris repositioned the sodden material and pressed it firmly in place.

Vin bit back a moan. "Time?"

"Just shy of 8:30." Chris wiped his bloody hands on his pants and sat back on his heels. "Gonna be a long night, Cowboy."

"Door?"

"Locked, I'm sure. But it doesn't much matter either way." Chris showed his shackled ankle. "I can't get anywhere near those stairs. And don't you even think about it."

"The boys . . ."

"Expected us to head straight to the ranch when we were done here. They won't be missing us--not before Monday morning."

Vin narrowed his eyes. "Yer just a . . . ray of sunshine . . . aren't you?"

"This is serious, Vin. You've already lost too much blood, not to mention the internal damage that bullet has caused. We've got no bandages, no water, if infection starts to set in . . ."

Vin panned his gaze around the small room, for the first time clear-headed enough to take in their surroundings. He widened his eyes as his heart picked up its beat. "Windows?"

"We're underground, remember? From what I can tell, Sinclair used this room to hide those weapons--I found a spot over in the corner that looks as if a bunch of crates were stacked there. He must have moved them to the barn in anticipation of the deal going down tomorrow."

Vin felt sweat bead his upper lip. The walls suddenly seemed to be shifting closer, the ceiling pressing relentlessly downward. He panted, trying to breathe around the elephant sitting on his chest.

"Vin. Vin!" Chris's voice pierced the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

"Need . . . air."

Chris bracketed Vin's face between his palms. "There's plenty of air, pard. You just have to slow it down. Look at me! Slow it down."

Vin locked eyes with Chris, a little of the panic receding. He concentrated on filling his lungs with slow, deep breaths and the vise around his chest eased a bit.

"That's good." Chris released him but worry was still written in the lines around his eyes.

"S-sorry. St-st-stupid." Vin shivered, tremors racing down his arms and legs.

"Would you stop apologizing? Hell, this place is enough to make me claustrophobic." Chris frowned. "Shit, your teeth are chattering."

"C-cold in here."

"More like you're going into shock." Chris disappeared from view, returning a moment later with an empty cardboard box. He slipped it under Vin's legs, elevating them. 

Vin didn't realize he'd faded out until a tap on his cheek and Chris's gruff voice brought him back. "Don't you check out on me. If I've got to endure this hellhole, the least you can do is stick around and keep me company."

"Not gonna die. Gotta nail . . . that bastard Sinclair. 'M not about to . . . to leave Jonah . . . high 'n dry."

"For God's sake, Vin! _Jonah_ is why we're here in the first place! He led me to Sinclair like a lamb to the slaughter."

"You don't understand."

"Then how about you explain it to me? Because it all looks crystal clear from my end."

Vin turned his face away from Chris's angry gaze, struggling for words that stuck in his throat. When he didn't speak for long moments, Chris heaved a sigh.

"Look, forget it. All that really matters now is--"

"Guys like Sinclair . . . you never know what's gonna set 'em off. There's no reason . . . no sense to it. At first . . . you fight back. You  
reckon . . . someone's bound to notice. Do somethin'. Make it stop." 

Vin shivered and stared up at the light bulb, wishing he could absorb its heat. "Then after a while . . . you realize no one wants to see . . . 'n it's never gonna stop. So you learn . . . to keep yer head down. Become invisible. 'N when you can't do that . . ." He swallowed, dry throat clicking. "You do whatever you have to . . . to survive."

"You want to talk about it?" Chris's tone held none of the pity Vin had feared should his friend learn the truth about his childhood.

He grimaced, finally looking at his friend. "God, no."

Chris inclined his head. "You ever change your mind . . ."

"I'd have to be . . . three sheets to the wind . . . to have that conversation, Cowboy."

"That could be arranged."

Vin read the steel beneath the humor and chuffed weakly. "Bet it could."

Before Chris could reply, they heard the rattle of keys in a metal lock and the trap door slowly swung open. Chris stood, placing himself between the door and Vin, but several minutes passed and no one appeared.

"Chris?" Vin propped himself up on his elbows, only to fall back with a low moan. 

Chris waved him to silence. "Who is it?" he called in the dangerous tone he reserved for drug runners and arms dealers. 

A pair of legs clad in ratty blue jeans appeared and a slight figure crept cautiously down the first few stairs. Chris scowled, folding his arms. "What do _you_ want?"

Jonah shrank back against the wall, wide-eyed. "I w-want to help."

"Oh, I think you've done more than enough already."

"Chris. Don't." Gritting his teeth, Vin pushed himself upright.

Chris stalked back to him. "Are you crazy? Lay down before you start bleeding again!" He grabbed Vin's shoulders but Vin batted him away. 

"Help me sit up . . . or leave me the hell alone."

"You are the most ornery, pig-headed, infuriating--" Chris helped him move to where he could prop his back against one of the support beams.

"Back at ya." Vin tipped his head against the post and closed his eyes. His shoulder was on fire, his stomach was churning, and cold sweat trickled down the sides of his face. When the pain ebbed to a more manageable level, he cracked open his eyes and looked at Jonah, still frozen on the steps. "Where's yer pa?"

"He left. S-said he had to gas up the tr-truck and get a few th-things at the store."

"Then how about you give me those keys and let us get out of here," Chris said, walking as close to the boy as the chain would allow.

Jonah bit his lip and shook his head. "I . . . I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Chris. Back off."

Chris rounded on him. "I will not back the hell off! If you expect me to sit by and watch you bleed to death, then you don't know me very well. He landed us in this nightmare; the least he can do is get us out."

"I can't!" Jonah yelled, his eyes blazing. "And not just because of what he'd do to me if I did. I don't have the key for those." He stabbed a finger at the cuff around Chris's ankle. "He's got it with him." He blinked, looking a little shocked by his own outburst.

"Then call the police--or better yet, bring me a phone," Chris pressed.

Jonah shook his head, his eyes welling. "I can't," he whispered, all the fight draining from him. "Y-you don't understand. H-he'd k-kill me."

"You said . . . you wanted to help." Vin's throat felt like sandpaper, his tongue thick and clumsy. Staying focused required tremendous effort. "How?"

Jonah brightened. "I brought you some st-stuff." He inched down another two steps, but after a look at Chris came no closer. 

Slipping a large backpack from his shoulders, he pulled out items and tossed them. In quick succession Chris caught several bottles of water, granola bars, towels, a first aid kit, and blanket, setting them at his feet. 

Jonah zipped the pack shut and stood. "He'll be b-back soon. I h-have to go."

"Wait!" Chris lunged toward the stairs, stumbling when the chain pulled him up short. "Jonah, Vin--Agent Tanner--has a bullet in his chest. A first aid kit isn't gonna cut it."

Jonah's gaze darted between Vin's pale face and bloody chest. "Once we're gone, my d-dad will t-tell the police where y-you are. He p-p-promised."

"That's too late. He needs a doctor _now_!" 

"Chris."

"Shut up, Vin."

"I'm sorry!" Jonah's voice rose. "It's the b-b-best I can d-do."

"It's not good enough!" Chris snarled.

"Yes, it is." Vin's breathy words cut through the shouting, drawing their attention. "It is." He repeated, looking up at Jonah. "Took a lotta  
guts . . . to go against him. I know how hard . . ." He trailed off, overwhelmed by the image of himself at fourteen--scared, bitter, and old beyond his years--crouched in Jonah's place. "Yer pa's wrong, kid. You . . . you deserve better 'n this."

For a long moment Jonah stared at Vin, the backpack clutched to his chest like a shield as tears spilled down his cheeks. He made a soft, choked sound and pounded up the steps. The trap door slammed shut and the lock rattled into place.

Chris swore under his breath, scooping the water, granola bars and first aid kit into the blanket and carrying them to Vin. He squatted, touching the backs of his fingers to Vin's clammy cheek.

"You need to lay down."

Vin grabbed a water bottle, fumbling with uncooperative fingers. Chris plucked it from his hands and twisted off the cap, but hesitated.

"Not sure drinking water is such a good idea."

"Gonna die of thirst . . . 'fore the bullet kills me." When Chris still didn't move, Vin held out a trembling hand. "Please, Chris."

Chris gave it up with a glare. "Damn eyes should be registered as lethal weapons. Sip it slowly."

The first swallow was heaven, quenching the fire in his throat, and the second slid down just as smoothly. The third, however, seemed to stick halfway down. Vin spluttered, coughing and wheezing as water trickled from the corners of his mouth. Blinking back tears, he worked to catch his breath. When he looked up, he was startled to see naked fear in Chris's wide green eyes.

"What?"

"You . . ." Chris picked up a towel and carefully wiped Vin's chin. 

Vin blanched when he saw crimson blotches staining the white material. "Guess maybe . . . you were right . . . 'bout the water."

Chris wadded the towel into a ball, his knuckles white. "I don't care what baggage that kid's carrying. He sticks his nose down here again, he'd better be willing to bring more than some bandages and a blanket."

Vin grabbed Chris's arm. "Not gonna . . . get that kid killed."

Chris rotated his arm, returning Vin's clasp. "I'm gonna see that goes both ways, pard. Best you don't forget it."


	6. Chapter 6

So much blood.

It soaked the discarded gauze pads, stained his clothing, dried in rusty streaks under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms. The small, airless cellar reeked with the rich, coppery smell. Chris swallowed hard when his stomach responded with a slow roll. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth until the nausea passed.

Vin was out again; asleep, unconscious--Chris supposed it didn't much matter as long as he gained some respite from the pain. He'd held perfectly still while Chris attempted to clean the wound, and Chris had forced himself to be thorough despite the agony he felt thrumming in the rock-hard muscles under his hands.

"Go ahead and holler, you stubborn fool," he'd said, knowing full well Vin was holding back to spare his feelings. "Nobody's gonna hear you."

"'M fine." Vin's teeth were clenched, his hands knotted in the thin blanket. 

The obstinate pain-in-the-ass had hung on right up to the moment when Chris flushed the wound with peroxide. Even then he never uttered a sound, just jerked and sucked in a sharp breath before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. He'd been in and out ever since.

Chris leaned back against the post, fighting the urge to close his eyes. Though his head still throbbed and he was weary to the bone, he had no intention of falling asleep. If Vin needed him, he'd be there. And if by some miracle an opportunity to escape presented itself, he'd be ready.

He looked at Vin, marking the ragged rise and fall of his friend's chest, the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, and the translucent pallor of his skin. He didn't need to be Nathan to know the blood Vin expelled with each cough, coupled with his increasingly labored breathing, signaled serious internal injuries. Chris's throat tightened until he could barely swallow and a dull ache blossomed in his chest. His best friend was slipping away and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Vin moaned, his forehead creasing and his legs shifting restlessly. Eyes darted behind closed lids, his fingers twitched and his respiration quickened to shallow pants. 

Chris placed a hand on his friend's uninjured shoulder. "Easy, Cowboy. I've got your back."

Vin quieted, sinking into a deeper sleep. Amazed by the power inherent in that simple touch, Chris chose to scoot closer rather than break the connection. He understood the degree of trust Vin's response implied, and was humbled by it. 

Chris recalled clearly the first time he'd witnessed Vin's skittishness with physical contact. Team 7 had completed their first successful bust with Vin as sharpshooter, and he'd more than proven himself, pulling their collective asses out of the fire with the deadly accuracy of his aim. Vin had been helping Chris inventory the seized weapons when Buck stopped by and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back.

It was just a flinch, the slightest recoil, but for an instant something that looked suspiciously like fear flashed in Vin's wide blue eyes. Then the walls came up, Vin was chuckling at Buck's bullshit, and Chris questioned whether he'd imagined it all.

Until the time he hooked an affectionate arm around Vin's shoulders and felt his friend stiffen. Once he began paying attention, Chris noticed Vin sidestepped most of the good-natured roughhousing common among the others. And though he enjoyed Friday nights at the Saloon as much as the rest of them, he always sat with his back to the wall where he could keep an eye on the room and avoid the bumping and jostling inevitable in such a crowded space.

Vin didn't like to be touched. 

Chris had been in law enforcement long enough to form his own suspicions about the root of that discomfort. Late one night after the others headed home, he'd pulled Vin's personnel file and ran a little background check of his own that would have made J.D. proud. The results said nothing--and everything--about Vin's childhood. Orphaned at five. A string of foster homes. A habitual runaway living on the streets by the age of sixteen. Angry. Withdrawn. Loner. Nowhere were the words "child abuse" used, yet they lurked behind every painful description. 

Nathan had fueled Chris's concern. He'd gotten a good look at Vin's medical file after the sharpshooter caught a stray bullet. The injury, thankfully, turned out to be a superficial graze, but routine x-rays revealed a number of healed breaks, and Nathan had glimpsed some disturbing scars while Vin was too woozy to keep up his guard.

After a long conversation with Josiah, Chris had decided against confronting Vin. Whatever may have happened in the past wasn't affecting his ability to perform his job. Unless that changed, Chris would leave Vin to decide just how much he wanted to share. And up until a few hours ago, that had been almost nothing.

That hadn't stopped Chris from beginning his own campaign to win Vin's trust. Not a particularly tactile person himself--especially since the death of his wife and son--Chris went out of his way to touch Vin. An encouraging pat to the back. An affectionate squeeze of the neck. A casual hand on the shoulder. Playfully ruffling his hair. And the firm forearm clasp that had become a signature for the carefully cultivated bond between them.

Chris shook his head. Ironic, really. He'd been so focused on breaching Vin's barriers he'd failed to notice how completely Vin had slipped past his own. Working side by side around the ranch, Sunday afternoons watching football, long rides into the hills . . . It felt as if he'd finally found his way to spring after wandering through unending winter. Somehow one long-haired, soft-spoken Texan had thawed the ice around his heart.

Vin licked his lips and cracked open his eyes. "Chris?"

"Right here." Chris leaned closer so that Vin could see him without effort. "How are you doing?"

Vin ran his tongue over his lips again. "Thirsty."

Chris grimaced at the froggy croak. "Vin . . . "

"Just . . . just one swallow."

He scowled but slipped a hand under Vin's neck and poured a little water into his mouth. Vin gulped greedily, and Chris felt like an ogre when he pulled the bottle away. The skin under his fingertips was too warm and there was a slight flush to Vin's pale cheeks. Wetting a towel, Chris bathed his friend's face and neck.

Vin was uncharacteristically passive under his hands, preoccupied with working for each breath. "Feels good."

"How's the pain?"

"Had worse." Vin evaded his gaze.

Translation: bad. Real bad.

Chris checked his watch. He'd given Vin a couple Tylenol before cleaning and bandaging the wound, but that was hours ago. Fishing some blister packs from the first aid kit, he eased Vin upright. "Here," he said, slipping three of the gel caps into his friend's mouth followed by a little more water.

Vin swallowed obediently, but clutched Chris's arm when he started to lay him down. "Want to . . . sit up."

Chris shook his head. "You're shocky, pard. Even if you could manage sitting up--and I don't think you can--it's only gonna make things worse."

He tried again and met the same resistance. "Damn it, Vin! Did you listen to a word I just--"

"'S eas . . . easier . . . to breathe."

Shit. Of course lying flat on his back would make it harder to work for air. Chris touched the hand gripping his shirt. "Sorry. Wasn't thinking. Let's see what we can do."

Vin had lost ground in the last few hours. A dead weight, he was too weak to do more than hang on while Chris shifted him to lean against the support post. Unfortunately, the movement provoked a round of coughing that left Vin slumped in a semi-conscious tangle of limbs, fresh blood on his chin, the blanket, and Chris's shirt.

'Hurts," he panted in a raspy whisper. "Oh God, Chris . . . hurts."

"I know. Hang on." Chris's voice wavered and he blinked to clear his blurred vision. Vin _never_ complained. He had to be in agony.

Slipping between Vin and the post, Chris pulled his friend's body against his chest. He wiped away the blood, pushing tangled hair back from Vin's sweaty face. "Just relax and breathe," he soothed, hoping Vin wouldn't notice how badly his hands shook.

"Trying." Vin rested his head on Chris's shoulder and sucked in air. Eventually his labored respiration steadied a bit. "Sorry."

"What the hell have you got to be sorry about?"

"Got us . . . into this. Shoulda . . . listened . . . you."

Chris snorted. "If anyone's at fault, it's mine. I'm the one had his head up his ass concerning the boy. And I never should've let you talk to Sinclair alone."

"Not your fault. Knew he was . . . bastard . . . not a gun runner." Vin coughed and more blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth. He dug his fingers into Chris's arm and squeezed his eyes shut.

"No more talking." Chris wet the towel and stroked it across Vin's lips. 

"Don't want you . . . blamin' yerself." Vin looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Promise me, Chris."

Chris's heart stuttered at the resignation in Vin's voice. "Nobody's gonna do any blaming. Now shut up and breathe while I figure how to get us out of here."

Vin was silent for so long that Chris wondered if he'd nodded off again. Despite his best efforts, he started to drift himself.

"Been a . . . helluva ride . . . Cowboy."

"Don't." He ground the word between clenched teeth, grief and rage lumped together like a rock in his stomach. 

"Got things . . . need to be said."

"You can tell me later, over that steak I owe you." 

"Chris."

"Save your breath, Vin."

The trap door rattled, then creaked open, and Jonah crept down the steps. Pinned by Vin's limp body, Chris settled for a glare.

"Come to help? Or just watch?"

"I brought you some more water." Jonah shuffled a few steps away from the stairs and rolled three more bottles across the floor. "I w-wanted to s-see if you were okay."

"Do we look okay?"

Vin lifted his head, tightening his grip on Chris's arm. "Please."

That single, weak plea quenched Chris's anger, leaving only weariness in its place. "It's the middle of the night, kid. Why are you really here?"

Jonah bit his lip, his gaze settling on Vin. "I kept thinking . . . How . . . how did you know?"

Vin tensed, but his voice was gentle. "Been in your shoes . . . once."

Evidently not what Jonah expected. He widened his eyes and moved a little closer. "Y-your dad hit you?"

"Never knew my pa. Ma died . . . when I's just a little fella."

"Then how . . . ?"

"Got passed around a lot. One foster home . . . things were bad."

Closing his eyes, Chris wondered how much horror lay hidden in that simple statement.

"He didn't always used to be this way." Jonah looked from Chris to Vin. "He had a t-temper, sure, but he never hit me. When my mom died . . . " He broke off and tears spilled down his cheeks. "He j-just misses her and I . . . I don't make it easy."

"Grief doesn't give you the right to beat the hell out of someone, Jonah. Especially not your own son."

Vin looked up at Chris, surprise and gratitude shining in his eyes. "He's right, kid."

Jonah scrubbed away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt. "He's all I've got. And he's still my dad. I-I owe him."

"Y' owe yerself. He ain't . . . gonna stop . . . 'n y' can't fix 'im. Y' haveta . . . save yerself."

Chris frowned at the heavy drawl, more evidence of Vin's weakness.

Jonah shook his head. "I don't know how."

Vin sagged, his head dropping to Chris's shoulder as if too heavy to hold up. "Yeah. I think ya do." He coughed up more blood, his body trembling from the effort.

Backing away until he bumped into the steps, Jonah quickly turned and ran. "I gotta go." 

"Jonah, please!" Chris called, hanging onto Vin.

The boy froze on the top step, and Chris could hear his ragged breathing. "I . . . I'll think about it." Then he was gone.

More coughing, and Vin moaned between each spasm. Chris wiped away tears and blood, rocking and murmuring encouragement until the attack finally passed. And Vin, the man who hated to be touched, leaned into the support, one hand clutching Chris's tee shirt and his face pressed into the hollow of Chris's throat.

"Can't," he gasped, shivering. "No more."

Resting his chin on Vin's head, Chris tightened his grip. "Yeah, you can," he said calmly, though it felt as if Vin's words had shattered something deep inside. "I'm here, Cowboy, and I'm gonna get you through this. Just . . . don't give up on me."

The warmth on his neck might have been blood or tears. Chris decided he'd rather not know which.


	7. Chapter 7

_Gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze. Gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze. Gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze._

Chris shut his eyes, absorbing the rhythm of Vin's battle for air. The sounds were both gut-wrenching and reassuring. It hurt to hear his friend struggle so hard for each breath. On the other hand, every gasp, every wheeze, meant Vin was still breathing. And for that small favor Chris was desperately grateful.

_I know I said I was finished with you, God. But I'll give you one more chance. Don't do this to me, to him. The way I see it, I've given up more than ten men. Go collect your damn blood sacrifice somewhere else._

Chris twisted his lips into a sardonic smile. How long had it been since he first turned his back on God, declaring he had no use for him? Nothing, not even Josiah's Bible quotes, had been able to change his mind. Funny how a bullet in Vin's chest suddenly put Chris on speaking terms with the Almighty.

Or not so funny.

He could feel the familiar rage bubbling up inside. When would he learn? Once the paralyzing agony of losing Sarah and Adam had given way to a constant dull ache, he'd promised himself that he'd never endure another such loss. Walls firmly in place, he moved through each day in a protective cocoon. He had the job and he had the boys, and he made damn sure neither one penetrated the comfortable numbness surrounding his heart.

And then along came Vin Tanner. Aloof. Soft spoken. Fiercely independent. A tough, confident exterior hiding so much vulnerability beneath. 

It was like looking in a mirror.

Chris had never had a friend like Vin. He loved Buck like a brother, but dear God, the man was work. Plowing through life, a whirlwind, sucking you into his boisterous, joyous existence. Buck burned bright, and that light had saved Chris during the dark days after Sarah and Adam's deaths. But that fire could be both exhilarating and exhausting.

If Buck was a whirlwind, then Vin was the eye of the storm. From the first, their connection had been instant, effortless. It didn't require words or gestures--in fact, was best felt in shared glances and companionable silences. Vin wasn't put off or intimidated by Chris's dark side; after all, he had his own demons to battle. Buck could bring Chris joy, but Vin . . . Vin brought him peace.

_Gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze . . . gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze . . . gasp . . ._

A moment passed before Chris's sluggish brain registered the deafening silence. He snapped open his eyes and looked down at his friend. Skin ashen, Vin lay utterly still.

"Vin!" Gripping his friend by the shoulders, Chris shook him, hard. "Don't you give up on me. You breathe, damn it! Breathe!" He punctuated the command with a sharp slap to Vin's pale cheek.

Vin's eyes flew open and he lunged upright. He pulled in a deep gulp of air and then coughed weakly. For long moments he choked and gasped, tears trickling down his face. Chris supported him as best he could, his own heart pounding wildly.

"The hell ya . . . do that for?" Vin sagged against him, shoving aside Chris's hand when he tried to wipe his face.

"Just thought it best you keep breathing. It'd be an awful nuisance to train a new sharpshooter."

"Got a helluva . . . bedside manner."

"Yeah, well, I already told you I'm no Nathan." Chris brought the towel back to Vin's face and this time Vin submitted.

"Timizzit?"

"Nearly four. Should be light soon." Chris frowned at the bluish tint to Vin's lips. A surreptitious peek at his nails revealed more of the same. Cyanosis. Vin was slowly suffocating.

"Wish I . . . see the sunrise. Bet 's . . . real pretty here." The words were slow and slurred. Vin's eyelids drifted to half-mast.

"We'll catch the next one." Chris worked hard to keep his voice steady. "We can ride up to that spot on the ridge--the one where you can see for miles? We'll bring a thermos of coffee and some of those sugar-laden doughnuts you're so fond of, and catch the show."

"Sounds like a plan." Vin's lips curved and his eyes slipped shut. "Just hate bein' . . . locked in. 'S the only thing he did . . . could make me cry." He grew heavier in Chris's arms. Only the shallow flutter under his hands reassured Chris that his friend still breathed.

He gritted his teeth and stared up at the ceiling. So Vin's fear of closed in spaces had darker roots. Looking back, he guessed he shouldn't be surprised. He thought about Vin's penchant for taking the stairs instead of the elevator. The way he got jittery whenever forced to attend a meeting in the small, windowless conference room. And how he'd eventually convinced Vin that swallowing a Valium before he got on a plane wasn't a sign of weakness.

What had always troubled Chris wasn't Vin's claustrophobia itself, but the shamed, self-deprecating little smile he'd give whoever witnessed it. Amazing how since meeting Jonah so many things were becoming clear.

As if summoned, the trapdoor opened and Jonah slipped down the stairs, silent as a wraith. When several minutes passed and he showed no sign of speaking, Chris sighed.

"What do you want, son?"

Jonah shrugged, his gaze fixed on Vin. "Been thinking," he said. "Was wondering how he's doing."

Chris found he could no longer muster the energy to be angry. "He's dying, Jonah. There's not much else to say."

Jonah's lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears. "Been thinking . . . The p-police . . . w-what if they shot my d-dad?"

Chris's heart lurched but he kept a poker face. "The police will do everything they can to make sure no one gets hurt. It's their job."

"But people d-do get hurt! They get hurt all the t-time! Get killed, even." He tore his gaze from Vin and looked pleadingly at Chris. "He's all I've got."

Remaining calm took every shred of self-control Chris had left. Jonah was poised on the knife's edge. One wrong word, a hint of the Larabee temper, and Vin could lose what might be his only chance for survival.

"Jonah, do you know where your dad put my cell phone?"

Jonah went very still, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe."

How many times had he seen that same wary expression when something knocked Vin off balance? "Do you think you could get ahold of it?"

"Maybe...yeah, probably, but I d-don't . . . He'll be getting up soon. I c-can't risk coming b-back here."

"You don't have to. Listen to me, Jonah. You take that phone somewhere you won't be overheard. Hit speed dial 3 and ask for Buck Wilmington. Tell him everything."

The little line between Jonah's eyes deepened. "Is he another agent?"

"Yeah, he is. But more important, he's a friend. He'll do the right thing, I promise." When Jonah still looked unconvinced, he added, "Please. Trust me."

Vin moved restlessly, mumbling gibberish. Chris rubbed a hand up and down one limp arm. "Shhh, easy, Vin. I'm right here."

When he looked up, the indecision had vanished from Jonah's face. He squared his shoulders and tipped up his chin. "I'll try."

He was halfway up the stairs before Chris found his tongue. "Jonah?"

The boy paused and peered down at him. "Yeah?"

"Watch your back, pard."

Jonah widened his eyes, one corner of his mouth turning up. "I will."

Chris leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping it wouldn't be too little, too late.

_Gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze . . . gasp . . . catch . . . wheeze . . ._

_Last chance, God. Make it count._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Who the hell was calling at 4:30 in the morning? On a _Saturday_? Buck yanked the receiver to his ear while still trying to pry open his eyes. "This better be a matter of life and death unless you're a damn sight prettier than I am."

Dead silence.

"Well? Cat got your tongue?"

Dial tone.

Cursing under his breath, Buck tossed aside the phone and plumped his pillow. He'd barely closed his eyes when the piercing trill jerked him back from the cusp of sleep. Rolling over with a groan, he grabbed the phone off the floor.

"What?!"

Silence again, broken only by someone breathing. Finally a soft voice stuttered, "Is this B-buck W-wilmington?"

Shoot, it sounded like a kid, and a scared one to boot. Buck reined in his temper. "Last time I checked. Who's this?"

"Jonah."

Was that supposed to mean something? "Well now, I don't exactly recollect knowing a Jonah. Mind refreshing my memory?"

"You d-don't know me. Agent Larabee said I c-could trust you."

Buck sat up straight, all his alarm bells ringing. "Chris Larabee? He told you to call me?"

"He said I could trust you," Jonah repeated.

Buck scrubbed a hand through his hair. Talking to this kid was like wading through molasses. "Is Chris there with you?"

"N-not exactly."

"Not exactly? What the hell does that mean?"

"Don't yell at me! I'm t-trying to tell you."

This was why he didn't have kids. Though come to think of it, sometimes J.D. was a darn close substitution. Buck sucked in a deep breath and blew it out.

"Okay, okay. Take it easy. I just get a little riled when I'm worried about my friends. How about you tell me how you know Chris?"

"He and Agent Tanner c-came by my house t-to ask my dad some questions."

Buck frowned. "Wait a minute. Is your daddy Raymond Sinclair?"

"Yeah. They left, b-b-but then Agent Tanner c-c-came back and-and . . . something bad happened." Jonah's voice grew higher as he began speaking faster. "He sh-shouldn't have come in the b-barn. He saw the g-guns and . . . and my dad g-got angry, and wh-when he g-gets angry, he loses his t-temper. They fought and D-dad just . . . He . . . P-p-promise me you w-won't let anyone h-hurt my dad!"

Damn. This sounded bad.

"Jonah. Jonah!" Buck cut through the boy's panicked rambling. "Son, you've gotta calm down. I want you to tell me exactly what happened to Agent Larabee and Agent Tanner. Are they all right?" But he already knew the answer. If they were, Chris would be the one on the phone.

"Buck?" J.D. leaned in the bedroom doorway, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on?"

He waved him to silence. "Jonah?"

"M-my dad . . . He shot Agent Tanner." Jonah's voice cracked. "He . . . he's bleeding real bad." 

Buck pinched the bridge of his nose. "Does your dad have 'em locked up somewhere?"

"The cellar under the b-barn. You gotta c-come quick or Agent Tanner might . . . I . . . I gotta go. Dad will get real m-mad if he finds out I c-called you."

"Jonah, wait!"

Buck thought he'd lost the kid until he heard a shaky reply.

"Yeah?"

"You done a real brave thing calling me. Now I want you to promise me something."

"What?" Suspicion dripped from the word.

"I'm gonna be coming out there, and I'm gonna bring help. Now I'll do everything I can to see no one gets hurt. But I want you to find a place to hole up and don't come out until you hear me calling for you. Got it?"

Silence. "Agent Larabee said you'd d-do the right thing."

Buck swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'll try."

He stared at the phone for long minutes after Jonah disconnected, still hearing that wary, hopeful voice.

J.D. cleared his throat. "Ah . . . Buck? Just what in the heck is going on? Are Chris and Vin in trouble?"

He shook himself out of his daze. "I'll explain as soon as we round up the others. Get dressed and let's ride."


	8. Chapter 8

_Present_

"What do you mean, we can't move in yet?" Buck scowled at Ezra. "The kid said Vin was hurt bad. Every minute we wait could put him closer  
to . . ." He glared through the trees at the farm a half-mile down the road and thought about the EMTs waiting a few miles back. "I ain't about to let Vin bleed out while we stand here with our heads up our asses!"

"And I share your deep concern for both our compatriots, I assure you. If you'd just calm yourself and listen for a moment I'll endeavor to explain why I believe we should proceed with caution."

"Let him speak, Buck," Josiah said.

Buck growled wordlessly, but waved Ezra onward. "Fine. But if you cut a few of those ten-dollar words things might move along faster."

"It's quite simple, really," Ezra said, brushing an invisible piece of lint off his black shirt. "My reconnaissance uncovered a suspicious amount of activity at the Sinclair farmstead. There seems to be some sort of business transaction taking place, and from the appearance of the participants I doubt very much that it involves hay or wheat."

"He's right." Nathan slipped from the cover of some trees, his expression grim. "I don't know what's goin' on, but there's a truck parked out back of the barn with two fellas that look like hired muscle sittin' in it."

"The two gentlemen inside the barn, on the other hand, arrived in a Porsche." Ezra sniffed. "A Cayenne Turbo. Deplorable waste of money, if you ask me."

"Sure does sound like a deal going down," J.D. agreed. "But for what?"

_"He saw the g-guns and...and my dad got angry . . ."_

Buck sucked in a sharp breath. "Guns."

Four pairs of eyes bore into him.

Josiah raised an eyebrow. "Something you neglected to share, brother?"

"The kid--Jonah . . . He was pulling a J.D. at the time, talking a mile a minute, so I could hardly keep up, but . . . He said somethin' about Vin seeing guns. And that his dad got real angry because of it."

"That's it," Nathan said.

Ezra nodded. "I concur."

"'He was pulling a J.D.'? What the hell's that supposed to mean?" J.D. spluttered.

"Looks like Chris and Vin landed themselves in a world of trouble." Josiah said. "The question is, how do we get them out?"

"I can help."

Buck spun, reflexively reaching for his weapon. A lanky, dark-haired boy wearing ripped jeans emerged from a thicket of trees. His gaze darted to the men at Buck's back, then fixed on Buck's face.

"I'm Jonah."

His heart still hammering, Buck moved his hand from his gun. "Damn it, kid! Don't you know better than to sneak up on a group of armed men?"

Cringing, Jonah ducked his head. "S-sorry."

"Geez, Buck, jump all over him, why don't you?" J.D. shouldered past him. "I'm J.D. Don't let this guy scare you. We're all really glad you called us about Chris and Vin."

"It was indeed a bold move worthy of our gratitude," Ezra said, tipping the boy a salute.

"Where exactly was Vin shot?" Nathan moved closer. "Do you know the caliber of the gun? And has Chris been able to stop the bleeding?"

"Easy, Nate," Josiah murmured. "Give him a chance."

"This here is Nathan, our medic," Buck said, placing a restraining hand on the man's shoulder. "The big guy's Josiah, and Mr. Fancy Pants over there is Ezra." He walked to Jonah. "And as you've probably figured by now, I'm Buck, the jackass you spoke to on the phone. It's good to meet you, son."

Jonah studied Buck, biting his lip. "You p-promised my dad wouldn't g-get hurt."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Buck grimaced. "I said I'd do my best, and I will." He narrowed his eyes. "If I remember correctly, I also told you to make yourself scarce until I had things under control."

"I want to help."

Buck laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You already have, Jonah. But now it's time for you to stay out of the way and let us do our jobs. Trust me, we know what we're doing."

Jonah shrugged free of his grip. "You were just s-saying you didn't know how to g-get your friends out. I _heard_ you."

Buck opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, sending the others a silent plea for help. To his surprise, Ezra stepped forward.

"Don't underestimate the boy, Mr. Wilmington. I suspect he may possess knowledge that could be extremely crucial to our success or failure. For instance, he could perhaps enlighten us as to what exactly is going on inside that barn." He waved his hand over his shoulder, giving Jonah a slight nod of encouragement. 

Jonah's gaze darted to the barn, and he winced. "He  
m-made me p-p-promise never to t-tell."

"We know he's your daddy, son," Josiah rumbled, his voice low and soothing. "But I also think you realize that what he's doing is wrong."

"And the more we know goin' in, the better chance we have of makin' sure nobody else gets hurt," Nathan added.

"You said Vin saw some guns," Buck said. "Is that what this is all about?"

His chin tucked to his chest, Jonah nodded.

Buck glanced at the others, carefully choosing his next words. "Is your daddy buying, or selling?"

A long pause. "Selling," Jonah finally whispered. He turned wide, dark eyes on each of them. "He swore it's the last time! He . . . he's . . . Things have b-been real hard since my mom d-died. My dad . . . he drinks sometimes and the f-f-farm wasn't doing so well. The b-bank is gonna take it away. We'll lose everything. He n-n-needed the money for a n-new st-start for us."

Buck sighed and rubbed a hand along his jaw. He was beginning to see how Vin had landed himself--and Chris--in such a mess. Their tough-as-nails sharpshooter had a soft spot as big as Texas for troubled kids.

"It's all right, son. We're gonna handle this. J.D.'ll show you where you can wait in the van and--"

Jonah shook his head. "No! If you all bust in there carrying guns my dad's gonna get hurt. I can help. I can get them to come out. Then you can grab 'em."

"We can't place you in the line of fire. You need to wait where it's safe."

Jonah skittered away from Buck's outstretched hand. "No. I agreed to call you, but I didn't agree to let you get my dad killed!"

Buck's temper flared. "Now listen here, pard. You ain't the one runnin' this show, so you-- Hey! Jonah! Get back here!"

But Jonah was off and running, easily evading J.D.'s and Josiah's attempts to grab him. They had to turn back or risk being seen.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Buck paced back and forth, finally stopping to draw a calming breath. "Okay. Best we can hope for now is some damage control."

"We'd better decide quickly upon a course of action," Ezra said, "since it appears our young friend is determined to render aid--whether or not we want it."

"Nate and I will take care of the boys in the truck." Josiah clapped Nathan on the back, grinning when his friend glared in return.

"Fine. Ezra, J.D., you're with me. We'll get into position and hope the boy can deliver what he claims." Muttering under his breath, Buck followed the others as they collected their gear. "Damn fool kid is gonna get us all killed."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Tell me . . . yer best day."

The breathy rasp startled Chris, pulling him from his dark brooding. Vin had been silent for so long, he'd feared the man had lapsed into a coma. He tilted his head to get a good look at Vin's face. "What?"

Vin blinked up at him. "What was . . . best day . . . ya ever had?"

Irrationally, anger sparked inside him. Damn fool was lying on the floor of a cellar, sounding like every breath could be his last, and he wanted stories? 

"Vin . . ."

"Need ya . . . to anchor me, Cowboy. Feels like . . . 'm driftin' away."

The soft admission snuffed out Chris's annoyance, and he was horrified when his vision blurred with tears. That Vin, a man who worked so hard to be self-sufficient, would confess his fear, was both humbling and agonizing. 

"Let me think on it a minute." He tipped his head back and blinked hard, already knowing his answer. "I guess that would have to be the day Adam was born."

Vin stiffened. "Chris, you don't have to--"

"It's okay." And he was amazed to realize it really was. He could do this, for Vin, and down deep maybe a part of him was grateful for the excuse. "If a man can't remember the best day of his life, what good is it?"

Vin didn't respond, but a little of the tension seeped out of his muscles.

"First thing you've got to understand about Sarah--she was as stubborn and pigheaded as . . . well . . . _you_." He grinned when Vin mustered a weak, one-fingered salute. "From the moment we found out she was pregnant, she fought all my attempts to get her to take it easy."

"Sounds like . . . real spitfire."

Chris chuffed, shaking his head. "You have no idea. About three weeks before her due date, I came home to find her on the floor, putting together the crib. I guess you can imagine my reaction."

"Bet you'd've made . . . rattlesnake look cuddly."

"You've got a way with words, pard. I lit into her something fierce and she came back with both barrels. We were yammering at the top of our lungs when all of a sudden Sarah cut off mid-sentence and stared at me with this funny expression on her face." He chuffed. "Then I saw the puddle on the floor. Her water broke."

"Guess that . . . shut ya up."

"It turned me into every cliché of an expectant father. Sarah very calmly packed a bag for the hospital while I proceeded to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. She finally took away my keys and threatened to drive herself if I didn't get a grip."

Vin's chuckle turned into a gasp. His body went rigid and he dug his fingers into Chris's arm where it lay across his chest.

"Sorry. Oh God, Vin, I'm sorry." Chris rubbed Vin's arm, ran his fingers through Vin's hair, searching for something, anything, to ease the pain. Slowly his friend relaxed, except for the occasional tremor.

"'M okay." Vin's voice was little more than a wheeze. "Keep . . . keep talkin'."

"Sarah . . ." Chris cleared his throat when his voice cracked. "Sarah was one of the lucky ones. By the time we got to the hospital she was well into labor. Adam was born about three hours later." 

Chris tipped his head back, absently stroking the hair from Vin's sweaty face. "I'll never forget holding him in my arms that first time. He was so tiny, and so perfect, and I . . . I just thought . . . This is the best thing I've ever done in my whole mediocre life. I made a vow, right then, that I'd be there for him. That I'd . . ." Chris swallowed and closed his eyes against a hot rush of tears. ". . . I'd never let him down."

Vin squeezed his arm--this time in reassurance. "You didn't."

"Didn't I? The time he needed me the most, I wasn't there."

"Yer wrong."

"They died alone, Vin! Alone and terrified, while I sat in my office sipping coffee and working on some damn meaningless report. So don't presume to tell me I'm wrong. You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Vin's fingers threaded through Chris's in a crushing grip. "You weren't in that car. But you were here." He placed their joined hands over his heart. "They knew, Chris."

Chris choked out something between a laugh and a sob. "How can you possibly be certain of that?"

"'Cause I . . . I still feel her."

Chris angled his body so he could see Vin's face, noting the slight flush on his pale cheeks. "Your mother?"

His friend nodded. "Know it sounds . . . crazy. But whenever things . . . was at their worst . . . I always knew . . . she was there. Got me through . . . times I didn't think . . . could take another step." He blinked hazy eyes and his voice sounded almost dreamy. "She's real close . . . now."

Chris's stomach did a slow roll. "Yeah? Well you tell her to back off, pard. I'm not ready to hand you over just yet. You're a pain in the ass, but I've gotten used to having you around."

"Trying." Another blink and Vin's eyes stayed shut. "So tired."

"I know you are but-- Vin? Vin?" Chris shook his friend gently, but Vin was out cold again.

Chris hugged the limp body close, floundering against a wave of pure helplessness and despair. Swiping his eyes with his sleeve, he glared upward.

"You can't have him--you hear me? We--I--need him right here. You want to be his guardian angel? Then send us some help."

The words had hardly left his lips when Chris heard a distinctive pop, followed by several more in quick succession. He jerked upright, heart pounding as he strained to listen. Screeching tires, men shouting, and more gunfire. 

Silence.

Chris eased Vin to the ground and walked as close to the stairs as the chain allowed. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, "Help! Can anyone hear me? We're trapped down here! Help!"

He shouted until his voice broke and became a wispy rasp. Grabbing a bottle of water, he took a long drink, hoping it would soothe his abused throat.

"Chris? Chris, you down there?"

The water bottled slipped from Chris's fingers, hitting the floor with a thud. "Buck?" His lips formed the word but no sound came out. "Buck?!"

"Chris!" Buck's voice radiated relief. "It's me, old son. Hold on; the kid's getting the key."

Kid? Jonah, Chris realized, a little shocked by the confirmation that the boy had come through. "Buck we need an ambulance! Vin was shot. You've got to hurry."

"Nathan's right here, practically foamin' at the mouth, and EMTs are standing by. Hang in there, pard."

Chris's knees were weak and his legs trembled with delayed reaction. He staggered over to Vin, dropping onto the floor. "Hear that, Cowboy? Help's on the--"

He trailed off, staring. Vin's lips no longer had a bluish cast--they were blue. Chris placed a hand over his friend's still chest, then his parted lips. Nothing, not a whisper of air.

" _No!_ Damn it, Vin, don't do this to me!"

With shaking hands, Chris tipped Vin's head back, checked his airway, and began CPR. A corner of his brain heard the trap door bang open and the thunder of descending footsteps, but he ignored it.

One, two, three. Breathe. One, two, three. Breathe.

"Chris? Oh, God, no." Buck clasped his shoulder, but he shook it off, leaning over to deliver another puff of air past Vin's slack lips.

One, two, three. Breathe. One, two, three. Breathe.

"Chris. Chris, paramedics are here. Let 'em in, now." Nathan, his tone as smooth as honey, his large, dark hands moving Chris gently aside. 

Chris didn't see the healer exchange a pointed glance with Buck as his friend fumbled the chain off his ankle. He couldn't take his eyes off Vin as the EMTs called out vital signs, started an IV, and inserted a tube down his friend's throat.

"Sucking chest wound, right quadrant. B.P.'s 40 over 30 palp; pulse 130 and thready."

"Chris." Buck again. "Let's get out of their way, all right?"

Chris resisted briefly, then allowed himself to be guided to the steps. He submitted to Nathan's cursory exam of the knot on his head, letting the man's fussing flow past him without bothering to decipher the words.

The EMTs had Vin on a gurney now, his face a lifeless mask. "We're taking him to Denver General," one tossed over his shoulder as they clattered toward the stairs.

"Got room for me?" Nathan asked. When they nodded, he turned to Buck. "Get Chris to the E.R. The head wound's superficial but he should have a CT scan just to be safe." He waited for a nod from Buck, then raced after the paramedics.

Buck slipped an arm around Chris's shoulders. "He's in good hands now, pard. You done your best."

Chris stared at the dark puddle on the dirt floor and wondered if his best would be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

"Someone should talk to him."

"He's sittin' right over there. Be my guest."

"Unless I'm mistaken, I believe you are the someone he has in mind."

"Forget it."

"You're one of his oldest friends."

"What's your point?"

"He'll listen to you."

An indelicate snort. "When pigs fly."

"You must admit you and our esteemed leader share a great deal of history. Surely that gives you some leverage?"

"I'll tell you what it gives me. It gives me the smarts to know that when Chris Larabee digs in his heels ain't nobody gonna make him move. The man's got more pure cussedness in his little finger than most do in their whole body."

Chris lifted his head from the cradle of his hands and glared at the men. "I tell you what else he's got--ears. You three can't whisper for shit."

Buck stood and sauntered over, J.D. and Ezra on his heels. "Well, hell, pard. We'll just bring our little parlay to you--you bein' the key topic of conversation."

"Mighty considerate of you."

"Chris--"

"No." Chris glared at J.D. and Ezra. "And before you open your mouths, no to you too."

"Nate said--"

"Nate worries like an old woman. I've been knocked on the head enough times to know when it's serious--it's not." Chris stared at the door to the trauma room. He could just make out a flurry of activity through the small pane of glass.

"Chris, you're . . . um . . ." J.D. took in the nervous glances of the other waiting room occupants. "Your clothes are covered in blood."

He snapped his head around. "Were you listening to Nathan? Vin's heart stopped twice on the way here. Why the fuck should I care about clothes?"

"Perhaps because they make you look like a deranged serial killer to the other occupants of this waiting room. A misconception your current behavior does little to disabuse," Ezra murmured.

"Translation: You're scaring the hell outta everyone," Buck added.

"I understood what he said."

"Then stop being a jackass to the people who just want to help you."

Anger flared white-hot inside Chris, quickly dying when he read the affection underlying Buck's rebuke. He ran his fingertips over the rusty blotches splattering his tee shirt and pants, and suddenly he was back in the cellar, feeling the warm stickiness of Vin's blood against his skin, hearing each ragged gasp for air, smelling the rich, coppery odor. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could still taste the metallic tang on his lips.

Warmth covered his knee and Chris opened his eyes to Buck's compassionate gaze. "You're running on fumes, pard. You need a shower, a hot meal, and at least four hours of sleep."

"I'm not going anywhere until I know he's going to be all right." The words came out harsher than he'd intended, and he gentled his tone. "I'm wearing his blood, Buck. I've breathed my own life into his body. Do you really think I could leave him now?" 

Buck looked away, working his jaw. "You've got to be the most pigheaded bastard God put on this planet. But you sure do have your moments."

"He'll be all right." J.D. made the pronouncement with the naive certainty that alternately amused Chris and drove him nuts.

Ezra slid into the chair beside him. "Our Mr. Tanner is nothing if not tenacious. Though his situation is grim, I have the utmost confidence he'll eventually be restored to us in perfect health."

"Damn, Ezra, why couldn't you just say he's too stubborn to die?" Buck slapped Chris's leg and stood.

The doors to the trauma room burst open and Vin was wheeled out, a variety of medical personnel clustered around the gurney. Chris caught a quick glimpse of his friend's chalk-white face and a tangle of tubes and wires before he disappeared into an elevator.

Nathan halted Chris's attempt to follow with a hand to the center of his chest. "Let 'em go, Chris. They're taking him up to surgery."

"How is he?" 

Nathan shook his head. "It's not good. The bullet clipped a piece of his lung. Between that and a chest cavity full of blood, his lung collapsed and he went into full respiratory arrest. They got him on a ventilator; right now he can't breathe for himself. They need to remove the bullet, repair the lung, and suture the chest tube in place." 

Chris swallowed, his mouth desert dry. "Nathan is he, ah . . . is he going to make it?"

"I can't answer that. Dr. Callaway's one of the best cardio-pulmonary surgeons in the state, but Vin lost a lot of blood and he's real weak. He may not make it through surgery, and even if he does, infection could kill him."

"You're acting like he's already dead," J.D. said, arms folded across his chest. "Vin's tough; he's a fighter. He needs us to believe in him, not write him off as a lost cause."

Nathan rounded on the boy. "Did I say I was giving up? I want Vin to make it just as much as you do, but wishin' ain't gonna make it so. This is the real world, J.D., and in the real world folks die from injuries a lot less severe than Vin's. All we can do is wait. And pray." He looked around. "Speaking of prayer--where's Josiah?"

"He took the kid over to Sherry in DCFS. Said he'd come by as soon as the boy was settled," Buck said.

Nathan frowned at Chris. "You get that head wound looked at?"

"I'm fine."

"Chris, how many times I got to tell ya, a blow to the head is nothin' to mess with! You could wind up--" 

"What is it about 'I'm fine' that you all find so impossible to understand? I've got a headache--that's all. I'm not the one bleeding into my chest. I'm not the one who can't breathe on his own. I'm not the one who might . . . Shit!" Chris stalked across the room and out the automatic doors until he was standing in the ambulance bay, breathing hard.

_Damn it, Vin, don't you die on me. You die on me and I'll never forgive you._

The door whirred softly and a moment later he felt Buck at his back. His lips curved in spite of his grief. That was right where Buck always stood, through thick and thin, good times and bad. Chris had grown to more than just expect it. He depended on it.

They stood in silence for a long time. Chris turned his face into the sun, letting the breeze ruffled his hair. He thought about Vin's passion for the outdoors, the way his whole face lit up when he rode Peso into the hills or hiked a particularly difficult trail or watched a sunset. It hurt to know that passion had roots in a dark closet. That his empathy for the street kids in Purgatorio sprang from a childhood of loneliness and despair.

"How can anyone hurt a child?" He hadn't really intended to put voice to the thought, and it hung there, oddly, in the silence.

If he was puzzled by the question, Buck didn't comment. He shuffled his feet and sighed. "Guess it all depends. Some are just pure evil, no two ways about it. Some, well, I guess they're so full of pain themselves it just spills onto others."

"It's a crazy, messed-up world when a son of a bitch like Raymond Sinclair is given a gutsy kid like Jonah." _And my son is taken away._

Buck's gaze was sharp, as if he'd heard Chris's thoughts. "Way I figure it, we each touch a lot of souls during our lifetime. Don't have to be kin for it to be something special. Jonah, Vin--just 'cause Adam's gone, Chris, don't mean you haven't made a difference."

Chris swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "You've got to be the most pigheaded bastard God put on this planet. But you sure do have your moments."

Buck's grin was as warm as the sunshine beating down on Chris's head. "Second-most pigheaded. But who's counting?" He gripped the back of Chris's neck. "Now let's get to work on that list I mentioned earlier."

It took Chris's weary brain a moment to process Buck's words. "I already told you--I'm not going anywhere until I know Vin's going to be all right."

"I'm not askin' you to. Ezra's picking up some food, J.D. went to get you clean clothes, and Nate arranged for you to shower and grab a few winks in the doctor's lounge."

"Buck--"

"He's gonna be in surgery for hours, pard. It's after that he'll need you. You ain't gonna be any good to him covered in blood and about to keel over from exhaustion."

He couldn't argue with Buck's logic, and he was too tired to try. Truth was, it felt damn good to let go and allow someone else to run the show for a while. Chris let the tension flow from his shoulders, nodding. "All right. You win."

Buck guided him back through the sliding doors. "Not bad for the second-most pigheaded bastard on the planet."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chris hated the ICU. Everything was washed of sound and color, from the muffled whisper of the respirator and the nurses' crepe soles to the sterile white walls and Vin's too pale face. The chair was too hard, the lights too bright, and the clear-walled cubicle left him feeling as exposed as a bug under glass.

He sighed and curled his fingers more firmly around the warm, limp hand. Vin, at least, was oblivious to his surroundings. Dr. Callaway was keeping him sedated, giving his body time to rest and regroup until he could grow strong enough to breathe on his own.

Listing his condition as critical, Callaway had warned Chris that Vin surviving the surgery was only a first step; he faced a long and uncertain road to recovery. Though they'd successfully removed the bullet and re-inflated his right lung, the chest tube was still producing bloody drainage and he was showing the beginnings of a serious infection.

"Hey, Mr. Larabee." 

Cara, Vin's night nurse, hung a fresh unit of blood, discarding the empty bag. Tugging his chart from a pocket on the end of the bed, she recorded Vin's pulse and respiration, examined the chest tube and catheter outputs, and checked his temperature with an aural thermometer, her touch efficient but gentle. 

Chris sat up straighter when he saw a line form between her brows. "How's he doing?"

"He's holding his own."

Chris scowled at the vague answer. "Cara."

She hugged the clipboard to her chest, the dimples in her cheeks betraying her attempt to look stern. "Mr. Larabee, we've been over this. I'm Vin's nurse; Dr. Callaway will update you on--"

"Cara."

She blew out a long puff of air. "You must be hell to work for."

He grinned, but it slid quickly off his face. "Please, level with me--and call me Chris."

Cara smoothed a lock of hair off Vin's forehead. "He's doing better than we expected, but not as well as we'd hoped."

"Meaning?"

"You're a cop, Chris. You know how serious a gunshot wound like Vin's would be even if he'd been rushed immediately to the hospital. But delay treatment for almost 18 hours, and add to that the filthy conditions . . ."

"But you're giving him those high-powered antibiotics." Chris tilted his head toward the IV line. "Won't that take care of the infection?"

She nodded. "It's just taking some time to find the right drug," she explained. "The problem is that in his weakened state, Vin doesn't have the reserves he needs to heal and combat an infection." She replaced the chart and brushed her hand against Chris's arm. "He's a fighter, that's obvious, or he never would have made it this far. Have faith."

Chris watched, bemused, as she returned to the nurses' desk. Have faith. Cara had no idea he'd lost his faith in a fiery explosion over four years ago. If faith was what it took to bring Vin back, well, Chris was the wrong man for the job.

Except . . . 

Somehow, when Vin slipped so effortlessly into Chris's world, faith crept in behind him. And had been making itself more at home with every passing day. Faith in his teammates--allowing them to be a part of his life, not just as coworkers, but trusted friends. Faith in Vin--allowing him into a heart he'd vowed would remain closed forever. And faith in himself--that he deserved to receive love and happiness. And that he was capable of giving both in return.

And now here he was, struggling to remain standing while once again the ground crumbled from beneath his feet. All faith seemed to do was screw him over every chance it got. 

Chris stood and leaned on the bedrail, touching the backs of his fingers to Vin's cheek and frowning at the heat. Vin's normally bronzed skin was so pale Chris could see the tracery of fine blue veins, and there were bruised crescents beneath his eyes. His only movement was the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as the ventilator pumped oxygen in and out of his lungs. He looked like a battered wind-up toy, not the strong, vibrant man Chris considered his closest friend.

A cup of coffee floated into his line of vision. Startled, Chris looked into Josiah's smiling face. 

"That pretty little nurse said we could each have five minutes." He placed the cup into one of Chris's hands and a sandwich into the other. "Thought you could do with a bit of sustenance."

"Thanks." Sipping the hot liquid, Chris set the food on the tray table.

Josiah moved to the opposite side of the bed. Chris watched as he placed a large hand on Vin's forehead and closed his eyes.

"I hope He hears you."

Opening his eyes, Josiah quirked an eyebrow. "He hears all of us, Chris. I don't have a corner on the market."

"If that's true, then He's not paying attention to what I've got to say." He shook his head. "Or He just doesn't like me very much." 

"And what exactly gives you that idea?"

Chris scowled, irritated that Josiah was being deliberately obtuse. "He took everything from me, Preacher. Everything that mattered. There were days I couldn't find reason to draw another breath, let alone get out of bed. He took them, but He wouldn't take me."

"You wanted Him to." 

The quiet words cut deep. Chris recalled the endless nights spent in a bottle, the days of reckless, risk-taking behavior. He couldn't bring himself to take his own life. But he'd done everything to insure something else would.

"Yeah. I guess I did." He looked at the still form in the bed. "When I read Vin's file, saw the way life had knocked him down again and again . . . Guess I figured if he could keep standing and dusting himself off, then so could I."

Chris paced to the window and stared at the twinkling city lights. "And now here I am, back on the floor again. And I'm damn tired of being God's punching bag, Josiah."

"Chris . . . Have you ever considered maybe _you're_ the one who's not paying attention?" 

Chris narrowed his eyes but Josiah held up a hand before he could speak.

"I don't presume to understand why God allows terrible things to happen to good people." Josiah smiled. "Guess if I did, I'd be God. But I do know that sometimes it's the pain in our lives that's the strongest tie binding us together. If you hadn't lost Sarah and Adam, do you honestly think you'd have the same connection you have with Vin?"

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but found he couldn't. Shared loss had drawn him to Vin, an understanding that went beyond words. It bound them together in a friendship deeper than any he'd ever known.

"He's better off for knowing you, Chris," Josiah said, coming to stand beside him. "And so are you. You said you were asking God for a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Don't you think maybe He was listening after all?"

Chris's eyes burned. "And if in His infinite wisdom He sees fit to take Vin?" 

"Then I guess you just keep listening." Josiah squeezed his shoulder and walked to the door, pausing. "That's where the faith comes in."

Faith.

Chris folded into the chair and watched Vin sleep. Everyone, it seemed, wanted him to hold onto faith. He just wasn't sure he had any left.


	10. Chapter 10

He hurt.

At first the pain was all-encompassing, blotting out everything else. Gradually, other sensations crept in. A steady beeping and hissing. The sharp smell of antiseptic. Softness beneath his cheek. Voices.

"Would you stop playing with that? Camilla sees and she'll kick your ass out of here."

"I'm bored."

"Like that's a news flash. Why don't you go bother the nurses?"

"'Cause Attila Camilla rides herd on me every time I stick my nose--or any other body part--near one of them sweet young things."

"You're just bent out of shape because the woman's immune to that so-called animal magnetism."

"So called? That's harsh, pard. We both know--"

"Wait a minute. Did he just move?" Footsteps, then warm fingers brushed his cheek.

"Nah, he's still out."

Except he had moved, hadn't he? His body felt as if it were immersed in cement, and he couldn't see a thing in the darkness.

"Shouldn't he be opening them baby blues by now? What exactly did the doc tell you?"

No wonder it was so damn dark--his eyes were shut. He struggled to lift lids that felt dipped in lead.

"Said he was weaning him off the sedative and that he'd be in to pull the tube soon as Vin--" Chris's voice--yeah, it was Chris--got all soft and he was wearing a rare, full-out Larabee grin. "Welcome back."

Buck's head popped into view. "Well, hey there, Junior. 'Bout time you decided to join the party. You've had us 'bout ready to worry the warts off a toad."

Vin blinked. Everything seemed to be out of focus and moving too fast. Words slid by before he could catch their meaning, but the smiles eased his panic. Chris vanished, then reappeared, and he wondered idly at his friend's shadowed eyes and disheveled clothing.

He let his gaze drift, taking in white walls, the patch of golden sunlight, a meandering crack in the ceiling. Chris and Buck continued to talk, their voices a soothing drone.

Vin blinked again, only this time his eyes wouldn't open all the way. Sounds and colors ran together, and he was drifting, sinking beneath the surface of an ebony lake.

Fingers squeezed his hand and tapped his cheek. Startled, he popped his eyes open and found Chris's face hovering just inches from his own. "Stay with me, Cowboy. The doctor will be here any minute and you can get rid of that tube."

_Tube?_ Vin opened his mouth to ask Chris what he meant, but the question caught in his throat. He coughed, then gagged, now fully awake. Something hard was in his mouth and down his throat, choking him. Grasping frantically, desperate to pull it out, his fingertips grazed smooth plastic just before Chris and Buck seized his arms. 

"Vin! Vin, calm down! That tube is to help you breathe. Easy, pard. Stop fighting me."

Chris might as well have been speaking another language. Vin saw his lips moving, but the words were drowned out by a shrill beeping and the hammering of his own heart. He thrashed and kicked, barely registering the pain in his frenzy to free himself.

"Vin! Ow! Damn it!"

A man in a white coat dodged Vin's fist and pinned his arm to the mattress. Grabbing Vin's chin, he ordered, "Take a deep breath and blow it out."

Vin gasped, choked, and then something was slithering up his throat and out his mouth. He coughed and retched until he saw stars, tears trickling down his face as he instinctively tried to curl into a ball. Voices faded in and out as gentle hands freed his arms, shifting him to a more comfortable position and gliding a cool cloth over his stinging eyes and flushed cheeks.

". . . thought you said . . . out of it . . . not getting better . . ."

". . . disoriented . . . fever and drugs . . . should improve . . ."

". . . hurting . . . give him something . . ."

". . . morphine . . . should help . . ."

Despite the oxygen flowing from the tube under his nose, Vin continued to pant, his chest tight with agony. He watched through slitted eyes as a nurse injected something into his IV. Within seconds, warmth seeped into his body, blunting the pain's sharp edges.

Fingers ruffled through his hair and he looked into Chris's eyes. Larabee smiled, then winced, running his tongue over a split lip. _Huh,_ Vin thought. _How'd he get that?_

"Hey. You with us?"

"Throat hurts." He frowned at the harsh rasp of his voice.

"Try this," Chris said, reaching for a styrofoam cup. He scooped something onto a spoon and pressed it to Vin's lips. "The doctor said it would be sore for a day or so, thanks to the tube. He'll be back in a few hours to . . . ."

Ice chips. Vin let the cool wetness trickle down his throat with a sigh. He examined the torn flesh on Chris's lip, observed that Buck had a small hole in the collar of his shirt, and studied the bright square of sunlight spilling onto the floor. He wished he could feel its warmth on his face and smell the crisp fragrance of the pine trees out beyond Chris's ranch. Thinking about how it felt to ride through the sun-dappled woods, he gradually realized Chris had stopped speaking and a little line had formed between his brows.

"You getting any of this?"

"How's Peso?"

For some reason Buck found the question hilarious. "Now we know what's really running through his head during those briefings you're so fond of!"

"Shut up, Buck. Peso's just fine, Vin. Don't worry--Charlie Peterson's been taking care of the horses."

The pain was distant now, muffled by the languid warmth trailing through his body. Watching Chris elbow the still-snickering Buck, Vin frowned. "Ya need a shave, Larabee."

Chris grinned down at him. "You are so stoned. Get some sleep, pard. We got your back." 

He meant to say he wasn't tired, didn't need sleep. But somehow the words got lost between his brain and his mouth, and really, it felt good to shut his eyes. Reassured by Buck's boisterous laughter and the pressure of Chris's hand on his shoulder, Vin slipped easily into slumber.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Showered, shaved, and a few more hours of sleep under his belt, Chris bumped into Dr. Callaway coming out of Vin's room.

"Mr. Larabee. Walk with me."

Stealing a glance through the open doorway, Chris saw Buck, J.D., and Ezra lounging around the bed where Vin slept, oblivious.

"He'll be fine. This will only take a moment."

Chris stifled a smile at the doctor's patient tone. "Am I that obvious?"

"Let's just say I've never had a patient come equipped with so many bodyguards." Callaway guided Chris to a seat in the small waiting room.

Chris bristled. "In our line of work--"

"I understand, believe me. In fact, I wish all my patients had such a solid support system. Coffee? Soda?" Callaway motioned to the vending machines. 

Shaking his head, Chris propped his elbows on his knees and watched the surgeon through narrowed eyes. He liked Callaway--the man had done a damn fine job of patching up Vin and had been amazingly generous with visiting privileges. Still, the chart tucked under his arm combined with the tight set to his mouth looked ominous. "Thanks, but whatever you've got to say, I'd just as soon you said it."

Callaway raised an eyebrow. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"No. And I'd prefer you didn't either."

"Fair enough." Callaway sank into the chair beside him. "Good news first. Your friend is out of the ICU and breathing on his own. His pulse is steady, BP is up, and the latest antibiotic seems to be knocking back the infection."

A little of the tension left Chris's shoulders. "I thought he felt cooler earlier before I left."

"His temp dropped to 101.2--a big improvement. If all goes well, another 24 hours on the antibiotic should see him fever-free."

"So what's the bad news?"

"Ever run a marathon, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris stared at the doctor, bemused. "Once, back in college."

"Then you probably understand what it means to hit the wall."

"I'm guessing you’ve got an analogy in there."

Massaging the back of his neck, Callaway nodded. "I'm trying to tell you that Vin has nothing left to give. The shock of the bullet wound, the trauma of surgery, blood loss, infection, fever . . . He's poised on the knife's edge. And if he slips, well, I'm not sure we'll get him back a second time."

Chris huffed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm the one who came in here wearing most of his blood. You don't have to tell me how close it was." 

"But I need to be certain you understand how close it _is_. From talking with Mr. Jackson I get the impression that Vin is a hard guy to keep down."

"You could say that."

"Well, you're going to have to. It's imperative he allows his body to heal completely, and that will take time. He's going to have to follow my instructions to the letter, and the better he starts feeling, the harder it may be. But I'll level with you--he can't afford even to catch a cold right now. His lungs are too weak, and his immune system has been severely compromised by this infection."

"I hear you." Chris tipped his thumb down the hallway toward Vin's room. "You know those bodyguards you mentioned? I can guarantee you that each and every one will dedicate himself to sitting on our sharpshooter, if that's what it takes."

Callaway broke into a rare grin. "Now that's what I was hoping to hear. Though I really doubt it will take all six of you."

Chuckling, Chris stood and offered his hand. "Doc, you don't know Vin."

When he got back to Vin's room, Ezra was playing solitaire while Buck and J.D. squabbled over a crossword puzzle.

"I'm telling you, Buck, that's the wrong answer." J.D. hunched over the folded newspaper, evading Buck's attempts to snatch it.

"And since when are you the expert? You got an English degree I don't know about?" 

"It doesn't take a degree to know that a six-letter word for 'remarkable creation arousing awe' isn't 'woman.'"

Buck tapped the paper. "Lookie there, the w and the o are already filled in!"

"Lots of words begin that way."

"J.D., they even used the word 'arouse.' Now I don't know where you come from, but in my neck of the woods that spells woman for sure."

"Aw, Buck--" 

"Wonder."

Buck and J.D. swiveled their heads toward Ezra, who never looked up from his cards. "Huh?"

"A creation arousing awe is a wonder. As in the Seven Wonders of the World? I believe you'll find that is the word you're searching for."

"Hey, he's right! That means seven down--'fit to eat'--is edible. Thanks, Ezra."

"Always happy to be of service."

"Still think woman is a better answer," Buck sniffed.

"Keep it down or you're going to wake Vin," Chris warned, heading for an empty chair.

"Too late." Vin squinted up at him, his voice thready but his eyes clearer than they'd been.

"Hey." Leaning on the rail, Chris smiled. "How do you feel?"

Vin screwed up his face. "Like somethin' crawled in my mouth 'n died."

"Nice image, Junior." Buck poured a cup of water while J.D. and Ezra gathered around the bed.

As he sipped from the straw, Vin scanned their faces. "I win the lottery or somethin'?"

"In a manner of speaking." Chris watched him closely. "What do you remember?"

Vin frowned. "We left the office, drove out to question . . . " He sucked in a breath, bolting upright. "Jonah!"

Monitors went crazy as Vin tensed, then folded over with a moan. Chris and Ezra seized his shoulders, easing him to the mattress. Chalk white, sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip as he coughed and panted.

"Oh, God. Hurts." 

"Not a wise move, Mr. Tanner."

"Relax. Just breathe," Chris slid his hand into Vin's, wincing when his friend clamped down with bruising force.

"Easy . . . fer you . . . to say."

Buck returned from the bathroom with a damp cloth just as a gray-haired nurse bustled into the room. After she eyed the monitors, she looked pointedly at Vin.

"I'm Camilla, Mr. Tanner—your day nurse. These gentlemen warned me you were going to be trouble. Looks like they were right."

"Sorry, ma'am." Vin's breathing slowed but the heart monitor still beeped rapidly. "Forgot . . . for a minute."

She nudged Ezra aside and activated the blood pressure cuff wrapped around Vin's arm. "Got a quick reminder, did you?" The curve of her mouth softened the jibe.

Wincing through another spasm, Vin nodded.

Camilla kept an eye on the readings from the cuff and took his temperature. Peeling down the hospital gown, she checked the dressing on his chest. "Scale of 1 to 10?"

"Six."

Ezra rolled his eyes, Buck snorted, and Chris shook his head.

"Elevated heart rate and blood pressure and a cold sweat, not to mention the death grip you've got going on Mr. Larabee's hand? I'm thinking more like an eight or nine." Camilla met Vin's startled eyes with a steady gaze.

Flushing, Vin ducked his head. "Reckon."

She adjusted the gown and tucked the blanket around him with gentle hands. "I don't need you to be tough, Mr. Tanner. Just honest."

"Aw, hell. Might 's well . . . call me Vin."

Smiling now, she ruffled his hair. "I'll get you something for the pain, Vin. Think you could manage some juice?"

"Sounds like heaven, ma'am."

Chris suppressed a grin. What was it with Vin and older ladies? Looked like he was well on his way to charming "Attila Camilla" as easily as he had Nettie Wells.

"No need to trouble yourself, Miss Camilla. I can get Vin's juice." Buck flashed a blinding smile.

Cocking an eyebrow, Camilla stared him down. "With the aid of one of my nurses, no doubt. Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Wilmington. I think it's best you stay right where you are."

"Man, Buck, she's got your number!" J.D. hooted once she'd left the room.

"It does indeed appear that your days as hospital Lothario have come to an end," Ezra agreed.

"Somethin's wrong with a woman who won't succumb to my overpowerin' charisma," Buck grumbled. "It ain't natural."

Chris listened with one ear, preoccupied by Vin's continued discomfort. He'd loosened his hold on Chris's hand, but his body still vibrated with tension. "Why don't you boys grab something to eat? Camilla would probably appreciate it if we gave Vin a little more breathing room."

Ezra picked up on the subtext. "That's an excellent idea. I noticed a cafe right around the corner that actually looks passable."

"Sounds good to me; I'm starving," J.D. said. 

"Kid, you're always hungry." Buck cuffed him on the head as they walked to the door. "Need anything, Chris?"

"Coffee. Black."

"On its way. You be careful, Junior. Looked to me like Camilla had her eye on your assets."

"Fuck you . . . Bucklin." 

When their voices had faded down the hallway, Vin looked at Chris, his expression troubled. "Level with me, Chris. What happened to the kid?"

Before he could respond, Camilla breezed in with a stainless steel tray and a carton of apple juice. After passing the juice to Chris, she swiped the IV port with alcohol and injected the contents of a syringe.

"Morphine," she told Vin. "If the juice goes down well you can have broth and Jell-O for dinner."

"Somethin' to look forward to," Vin muttered.

She gave him a reproving look, but Chris spied amusement beneath. "Behave yourself and I'll let you pick which flavor. Cross me and you automatically get green."

"Yes, ma'am."

Collecting the tray, she inclined her head to Chris. When he'd steadied the juice carton in Vin's shaky hands, he followed her to the door.

"What he needs most is rest," she said, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "The morphine will most likely knock him out. Let it."

Chris touched two fingers to his brow. "Yes, ma'am."

When he returned to the bed, Vin handed him the empty carton. His eyes already had the slightly unfocused look indicating heavy drugs, the pupils abnormally large. A little voice in Chris's head observed that if he stalled a few minutes the whole unpleasant conversation could be postponed. Vin wasn't long for this world.

Sighing, he lowered the bed rail and sat on the edge of the mattress. "I'm not sure how much you remember."

"'S pretty hazy. I remember how scared he was. How pissed you were."

"Yeah, well . . . Let's just say you helped me see through new eyes. The kid's a lot gutsier than I gave him credit for."

"He called the police?"

"Actually, he called Buck."

"Wasn't sure he had it in him."

"Like I said, the kid's tough. He not only led Buck to us, he got his dad and the two guys making the buy to come out in the open where Buck and the boys could take 'em down."

"What about his dad?" When Chris didn't answer immediately, Vin stiffened and clamped a hand onto his arm. "Dead?"

"Easy." Chris pried the fingers loose, clasping them in his. "Not dead. But he's hurt bad. Took slugs to the shoulder and belly. They're not sure if he'll make it."

Vin flung an arm over his eyes. "Damn," he said, his voice choked.

"There's more." Chris waited until Vin lowered his arm before continuing. "When the buyers got wind of what Jonah was doing, they came out shooting. Sinclair threw himself on top of the kid, shielded him with his own body. That's how he got shot."

Eyes huge in his pale face, Vin shook his head. "What? I . . . I don't understand . . . "

"I don't either. But the fact of the matter is, he sacrificed himself to save his son's life."

Vin turned his head, blinking hard. "Better he'd stayed a bastard."

Taken aback by the bitterness in his friend's voice, Chris watched Vin struggle for control. When it became clear his friend was withdrawing from him, he squeezed Vin's hand. "Hey. Talk to me, Cowboy."

"Playing the hero . . . Don't you see? It's gonna hurt the kid so much worse than anything he ever did with his fists."

He sounded on the verge of tears, and for the life of him, Chris couldn't understand why. "Hurt him? How?"

Vin closed his eyes. "I'm real tired, Chris."

Everything in him wanted to push, to demand an explanation for Vin's deep distress. But he remembered Camilla's words and the grave expression on Callaway's face. So Chris rubbed his thumb soothingly over the back of Vin's hand until his fingers slowly uncurled and his breathing turned slow and deep.

"We're not finished with this, pard," he murmured. "Not by a long shot."


	11. Chapter 11

"Hi, Boss. How's Vin?"

"They just brought him back to his room. Camilla promised to come and get me when he's settled." Chris tucked the cell phone against his ear and stood, pacing to the waiting room's large window. "Everything under control?"

"Running like clockwork. Ezra and Nathan finished inventorying the guns, J.D.'s digging up information on Sinclair’s supplier, and Buck debriefed Travis."

Tilting his head left, then right, Chris tried to work the kinks out of his neck. "Great. That's great. What about Jonah--any word?"

"Turns out his mother has a sister in California who was only too happy to take him in. She's got little ones, so it'll be another couple of days before she can fly out here to collect him," Josiah replied. "Any word on his dad?"

"Still holding his own. They're cautiously optimistic--whatever the hell that means."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Everything under control?"

"Well, Vin's still in a lot of pain, but getting rid of the chest tube--"

"Not Vin, Chris." Josiah's voice turned gentle. "I'm asking about _you_." When Chris fumbled for an answer, he added, "You were looking a little rough around the edges when you left here. I've got two ears, if you need 'em."

Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Chris sighed. "I'm fine, Josiah."

"Sometimes it's harder to see a brother hurt than to bear the pain ourselves."

"I said I'm fine."

"Of course you are. I'm just saying it isn't easy watching a friend struggle when all you want to do is dive in and help. Sometimes our stubborn Texan's too independent for his own good."

Chris huffed. "You can say that again." He rubbed at the headache building behind his eyes. "Callaway warned me about the pain and weakness, but there's something more going on." 

"I do get the impression Vin's wounds aren't all visible." Josiah paused. "Something happened in that cellar."

Tipping his head against the glass, Chris shut his eyes. "Something happened a long time ago. The cellar just dredged it all up."

"You've tried talking to him?"

"Of course I have. But he's either in agony or stoned on morphine. And he's reinforced those damn walls of his with steel."

"Well, Boss, I can tell you this much: losing sleep isn't going to bring down those walls any quicker."

Chuckling, Chris shook his head. "Now you sound like Nathan."

"I'll consider that a compliment." The amusement left Josiah's voice. "He'll let you in eventually, Chris. I'm sure of it."

Chris caught a flicker of movement and turned to see Camilla approaching. "Gotta go, Josiah. See you at six?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

He snapped the phone shut and met Vin's nurse halfway. "I can go in now?"

"Go ahead. But Chris . . ." She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "It'll take a few more hours for the anesthesia to work its way out of his system. So don't be concerned if he doesn't make much sense--he's still pretty loopy."

"Thanks."

She smiled. "I'll be in every so often to keep tabs on him. If you need anything sooner, just give me a buzz."

"I thought your shift was over in . . ." He checked his watch. ". . . ten minutes."

"I decided to stay a little longer. There are some supplies I need to inventory."

"Which coincidentally gives you the opportunity to make sure Vin is all right."

Camilla folded her arms and glared down her nose at him. "What exactly are you suggesting, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. "He gets under your skin, doesn't he?"

A slight twitch of her lips and she headed back to the nurses' station. "Use the call button, Mr. Larabee. Otherwise I'll stop by in about thirty minutes."

He stepped quietly into Vin's room, his eyes on the figure in the bed. Seeing Vin so wan and still, it was difficult to remember that removing the chest tube was a milestone, not a setback. Chris walked slowly around the bed, examining the bag of I.V. antibiotic, adjusting the blanket, and smoothing an errant strand of hair from Vin's face.

He'd been settled in a chair with a book for about fifteen minutes when Vin's breathing sped up and he fidgeted restlessly. Standing, Chris moved closer, taking in the light sheen of sweat, rapid eye movement, and muscle twitches. 

Laying his hand on his friend's chest, Chris felt the rapid beat. "Vin. Wake up, pard."

Vin made a low, distressed sound in the back of his throat. His eyes flew open and he came up swinging. "Let go!"

"Take it easy. You were dreaming," Chris soothed.

"Chris? What--?" 

"The chest tube is history. You're back in your room."

"I thought . . ." Vin scanned his surroundings with wide, glassy eyes.

"What?"

"Never mind." Gradually relaxing, Vin accepted some ice chips and raised a minimum of protest when Chris deflected his questing fingers from the newly bandaged area on his side.

"You in any pain?" he asked, hoping to distract him.

Vin screwed up his face as if the question required all his concentration. "Must be, but I feel too good to tell fer sure."

Chris suppressed a grin. "Camilla said it’d be a while before the anesthesia wore off. She'll be in to check on you in a bit."

Sinking deeper into the pillow, Vin gave him a lopsided grin. "I like Camilla. She reminds me of Nettie. And m' ma." He slurred the words, the drugs deepening his drawl. "Julie, m' night nurse is real nice too. She don't have Camilla's spunk but she's got somethin' almost as good."

"What's that?"

"A great ass."

Chris nearly swallowed his tongue. He'd sat in on enough bull sessions with the boys to know Vin held a healthy appreciation for a pretty lady. But he'd never heard his shy, reticent teammate confess more than basic attraction, and then only in the most respectful terms.

Guess still waters really did run deep. And Camilla wasn't kidding about those drugs.

"I hadn't noticed," he said dryly. "Maybe you should ask her out, once you're back on your feet."

"Nah." Plucking at the blanket, Vin turned his head to gaze out the window. "She'd just say no."

"What makes you think that?"

Vin lifted his uninjured shoulder. "She works with all them smart, rich doctor types. Girl like that--she's outta my league."

"Bullshit." 

Chris was blindsided by a burst of anger. He'd known Vin was a little insecure about his dyslexia and the way it had impacted his education. Still, he'd always thought his friend's skill with a gun more than balanced that hit to his self-esteem. Did Vin really believe himself less worthy because he didn't have a college degree? And how the hell could Chris not have realized that until now?

"You're as good as any doctor. All those degrees are just pieces of paper--what matters is the man inside. Anyone would be lucky to go out with you."

Vin winked--or at least he tried. "Thanks, pard, but yer not my type."

Chris rolled his eyes, but at least his anger backed off a notch. Vin squirmed around a bit, then seemed to drift toward sleep, his eyes fluttering shut. Just when Chris was ready to reclaim his chair, Vin jerked and opened his eyes.

"Jonah?"

_I wish to hell you'd stop fretting over that kid_ "He's all right," Chris said aloud. "His mother's sister wants him to come and live with her family. Josiah says she seems real nice."

"They all do, at first," Vin muttered.

"What?"

"How 'bout his pa?"

Chris looked at him through narrowed eyes for a long moment before answering. "Doing better. Doctors think he'll make it."

Evidently the drugs not only loosened Vin's tongue, but also sabotaged his poker face. Chris watched various emotions flicker across his features--relief, anger, guilt, and deep sorrow. 

"Vin." He paused, his conscience pricking him for what he was about to do. "What did you mean when you said it would've been better if Jonah's dad had stayed a bastard?" 

Vin knit his brows together. "Son of a bitch don't deserve to be looked at like some kinda hero."

"No one's calling him a hero."

"Good. 'Cause he ain't. One good deed don't make up fer a lifetime of shittin' on ya."

Studying Vin's face, Chris thought hard before speaking. Something profound was lying just beneath the thin veneer of anger in his friend's words. "I agree. But I don't see how what he did will hurt Jonah."

Pressing his lips together, Vin turned his head and said nothing.

"I mean," Chris said tentatively, "seems to me at least now Jonah has proof his father really does care about him."

Vin snapped his head around, fixing Chris with a glare that might have been scary except for the tears glistening in his eyes. "You think that'll make him feel _better_?"

Chris gaped at him, bewildered. "Won't it?"

"Let me ask you somethin', Larabee. Which do you think hurts more--knowin' the bastard beatin' the hell outta you does it 'cause he hates you? Or 'cause it's his sick, twisted way of lovin' you?"

Nausea churned in Chris's stomach until he could barely choke a reply. "Vin, I--"

"You can't stop 'em from hurtin' you. The only thing you can do, the one scrap of power you got, is to hate 'em back. An' every time they do somethin' nice--come to your football game, or tell you you done good, or . . . or throw themselves in front of a damn bullet . . . They take even that much away from you."

Curling his fingers around Vin's arm, Chris asked, "Is that how it was for you?"

Vin pulled away, blinking hard. "This ain't about me." 

_You're wrong, Cowboy._

Camilla chose that moment to enter the room. She took one look at Vin's tense posture and sweaty face and scowled.

"What's going on here, Mr. Tanner? Your heart rate is up and your color is bad. Do I need to kick Mr. Larabee out?"

"Hell," Vin said to Chris. "I know 'm in trouble when she starts callin' me mister."

Picking up his wrist, she checked her watch. "Must not be feeling too bad if you can still behave like a stubborn fool." When Chris smirked she turned her frown his way. "At least he can blame it on the anesthesia. What's your excuse?" 

Vin snickered, then pressed a hand to the side of his chest, groaning.

"It's going to be tender for a while." Camilla tucked aside Vin's hair and slipped an aural thermometer into his ear, the tenderness of her touch belying her brusque demeanor. "How's the pain?"

"Weren't none 'til you made me laugh."

She pursed her lips but her eyes twinkled. "Your temperature's a little elevated, but that's to be expected. Dr. Callaway says we can get you set up on a PCA pump now that you're more lucid. It'll let you control your own pain medication by pressing a button."

"Don't like the drugs." Vin suppressed a yawn, his eyelids heavy. "Make me sleep all the time. 'Sides, I don't need 'em."

"Sleep is the best thing for you right now. And I guarantee that in another hour or so you'll see just how badly you do need them." She rearranged the pillows so that Vin was propped more comfortably. "Now do as you’re told, and I'll bring you some of that ginger ale you're so fond of." 

The corners of Vin's mouth turned up. "Yes, ma'am."

Patting his arm, Camilla gave Chris a warning glare that would've put Travis to shame and left.

Chris shook his head. "I get chewed out and you get ginger ale. Figures."

"Yer just upset 'cause you finally met yer match when it comes to the Larabee death stare. Put the two of you in the same room an' you could peel the paint clean off the walls."

"Didn't I hear Camilla tell you to go to sleep?"

Vin smirked but shut his eyes. Sitting in his chair, Chris watched as his friend's heart rate and breathing slowed. He reached for his book, but Vin's soft, husky voice stayed his hand.

"'M the reason he turned in his pa. Jus' wanna know he'll be okay."

Leaning forward, Chris placed his hand on top of his friend's. "He's safe. And he's got all the heart and determination of a certain Texan I know. He's going to be just fine."

Whether comforted by his words or simply overcome by exhaustion, Vin slept.


	12. Chapter 12

Chris prowled restlessly around the room, from the doorway, to the window, to the chair, and back again.

"What's wrong with you?"

He tore his gaze from the wall clock and looked at Vin. "Nothing. Why?"

Vin shifted a little, wincing. "You're jumpier 'n a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs."

Hearing the strain in his friend's voice, Chris perched on the edge of the bed. "You hurting?"

To prevent pneumonia from settling into Vin's weakened lungs, the medical staff had begun getting him out of bed for increasing periods of time. He'd been sitting in the chair for over thirty minutes, and discomfort and fatigue were etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

"I'm fine. Don't change the subject."

One corner of Chris's mouth turned up. "I'm fine too."

Studying his face, Vin shook his head. "If you're havin' second thoughts about playin' nursemaid, I understand."

"I'm not having second thoughts; Travis has already approved the time off." When Vin still looked doubtful, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You staying at the ranch doesn't make me jumpy, pard. Hospitals . . . Well, they're another story."

Vin hesitated, then nodded. "I hear ya. I've 'bout had my fill of this place, an' then some. Gonna be real good to see the sky an' breathe air that don't smell like it's been disinfected six ways to Sunday."

"Not to mention the uncomfortable furniture." Chris gestured between the chair and the bed.

"An' don't even get me started on the food."

"You two are just breaking my heart." Julie, Vin's raven-haired night nurse leaned in the doorway, one hand pressed to her chest. "Plotting to leave us without a backward glance."

Ducking his head, Vin peered at her through his lashes. "Never said there weren't a thing or two I'll miss about this place."

Julie smiled, revealing matching dimples. "Hopefully more than just those illicit chocolate pudding cups I smuggle you."

Blushing, Vin gave her a lopsided grin. "I reckon."

Standing, Chris ruthlessly squelched the smirk that wanted to take over his face. "Can you stay a minute, Julie? I wouldn't mind stretching my legs."

"Of course." Julie took his place on the side of the bed. "Go grab yourself a cup of coffee from the nurses' lounge, if you'd like. It's much better than what comes out of the machines."

"Thanks. I just might take you up on that."

When Vin gave him a look that said he knew exactly what Chris was up to, he responded with a wink. "Be back in a few."

Vin narrowed his eyes. "Watch your back, Cowboy."

"Why do you call him that?" Julie asked as Chris stepped into the hallway. He heard Vin raise his voice to be sure it would carry. "He likes it. Me and the boys figure he must think he was one of them gunslingers in a previous life."

Chris flipped him the bird behind Julie's back before heading toward the visitor's lounge. Josiah was seated on one of the overstuffed couches, his large hands clasped between his knees. Smiling, he stood as Chris approached.

"Boss."

Chris glanced around the otherwise empty room, frowning. "Where is he?"

"Nathan took him to see his father. They should be back any minute." Josiah cocked his head. "Something wrong?"

Chris looked away, clenching his jaw. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"The boy's already here, Chris. He's gonna step out of that elevator any minute, and when he does he expects to see Vin."

"They've had him sitting in the damn chair for nearly an hour. You know how much that takes out of him. I just think the timing's off."

"Jonah's aunt arrives tomorrow. As soon as the paperwork is taken care of they'll be flying back to California. I'd say the timing's now or never." He moved into Chris's line of vision, forcing him to meet his eyes. "What's really bothering you?"

Chris glared at him for a long moment before answering. "Picking at a wound doesn't help it heal."

"Nor does ignoring it and leaving it to fester." 

"You really think talking to Jonah is going to help Vin?"

Josiah sighed, rubbing a palm across his stubbled jaw. "I think Vin and Jonah share a terrible bond the rest of us will never completely understand. I think demons Vin thought he'd locked away have come back to torment him. And I believe Jonah can give him the strength he needs to banish them once and for all."

Chris turned and paced to the window. For perhaps the first time in his life he could empathize with Vin's claustrophobia. He felt hemmed in by sterile corridors and constantly intruding hospital personnel, by Vin's pain and his own inability to stop it. He longed for open spaces and rolling hills. For the peace of Vin's quiet companionship as they worked side by side. Most of all, he longed to erase the past week, and the name Sinclair, from both their lives.

He sensed Josiah's presence at his back a moment before the big man spoke. "You can't pretend it never happened, Chris. Vin made that mistake years ago, and now he's paying the price."

Chris kept his gaze fixed on the city streets. "Nightmares are coming all the time now. He can't sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, shaking." He finally looked at Josiah. "Last thing I want to do is cause him more pain."

"Lancing a wound hurts like hell. But it's the only way to get out the poison and begin healing." Josiah gripped Chris's tense shoulder. "I don't like to see him in pain any more than you do. But I do believe this is best for Vin."

The elevator chimed softly. Squaring his shoulders, Chris turned to face Nathan and Jonah where they stood on the edge of the waiting area. Dressed in new jeans and a Broncos tee shirt, Jonah looked pale but determined. He met Chris's gaze without flinching.

"Hi, Agent Larabee."

"Jonah." Chris followed Josiah over to the pair, nodding to their medic. "Nate."

"Hey, Chris. How's Vin doin' tonight?"

"Pretty good. Tired--they've got him sitting up again."

"That's a good sign. Means they're getting' ready to release him."

"Doc said maybe day after tomorrow." Chris looked at the boy. "Vin's had a real close call. He can't afford to get worked up."

Jonah nodded, his dark eyes huge. "I won't upset him. I j-just want to s-s-say I'm sorry."

Chris hesitated, trapped by the hope in Jonah's eyes and Josiah's silent expectation. "All right. Just . . . give me a minute. I'll let him know you're coming."

"We'll wait in the hallway," Josiah agreed, and Chris was inexplicably irritated by the approval in his voice.

As he walked down the corridor to Vin's room, he found himself wishing again for open spaces, and hoping he wasn't making a big mistake.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Vin squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. Pain radiated through his chest and down his arms, throbbing with each beat of his heart. A cool cloth stroked across his sweaty face and warm fingers curled around his wrist.

"You all right?"

"Just . . . just gimme a minute." He ground the words out through clenched teeth.

"I'm hitting the damn button."

"No." He cracked open his eyelids and glared at Chris, who looked almost as rough as he felt.

"Vin, you're in agony."

"Stuff puts me out. Don't wanna sleep." He hated the fact that he sounded like a whiny child.

To his surprise, Chris grimaced but didn't argue. Vin eased himself against the pillows propped at his back, absurdly grateful to be lying down again. He watched Chris glance at the door for the third time since Julie had left.

"What's goin' on? You act like the boogeyman's waitin' out in the hall."

"Maybe he is."

Vin raised his eyebrows at the barely audible mutter. "What?"

Chris sighed. "Someone's here to see you."

"'Sat all? What're you makin' such a fuss for? I ain't dyin'; I can handle visitors. Who is it--J.D.? Ezra? Why don't they just c'mon in, for Pete's sake?"

Chris shook his head, finally looking Vin in the eye. "It's Jonah."

"Oh." Vin read the subtle disapproval in Chris's tense shoulders and clipped words. "You don't want me to see him."

"I think it's too soon. You're weak as hell and hurting most of the time--despite how hard you try to hide it. I don't want that kid doing anything to set you back."

Vin couldn't bite back a surge of irritation. "I'm not gonna fall apart, Chris. You don't have to treat me like I'm made of glass."

"I was in that cellar, Vin. I saw the effect that kid had on you."

"And I'm tellin' you I've been lookin' after myself long as I can remember. I don't need you tryin' to pad corners for me. Damn!" Vin pressed a hand against the fresh surge of fire in his chest. "I'm sick of this shit."

Chris reached for the button to the PCA pump, but Vin blocked his hand. "Send him in."

Chris tightened his lips to a thin line. "Fine." He stalked toward the door.

"Chris?" 

His friend paused but didn't turn around. "Yeah."

"Just Jonah. I want to talk to him alone."

Stiffening his spine, Chris nodded curtly and disappeared.

Blowing out a long breath, Vin stared up at the ceiling. While his memory of the ordeal in Sinclair's cellar was hazy, he could clearly recall the strength of Chris's arms, the warmth of his body, and the comfort of his voice. Without Chris, he'd have died in that hellhole--of that Vin was certain. The last thing his friend deserved from him was anger, but these days his emotions were raw and out of control.

He wished he were at the ranch, fixing fences or cleaning tack. Breathing air sweetened with pine and horses and hay. Soaking up the pleasure of Chris's company without having to say a word, without seeing the constant shadow of doubt and worry in his friend's eyes. Most of all, he wished the last week had never happened. Come to think of it, he wished most of his childhood had never happened.

A tentative knock broke through his reverie. Jonah hovered just inside the room, shuffling his feet. "M-Mr. Larabee said y-you'd see me."

"C'mon in. And stop lookin' so scared. I ain't bitten off anyone's head so far an' I don't plan on startin' now."

Jonah came slowly over to the bed, his gaze taking in the hospital equipment and Vin's IV. He swallowed hard. When he didn't speak, Vin broke the silence.

"How's your pa?"

"The d-doctor says he'll be okay--eventually."

"How 'bout you?"

Jonah shrugged, staring at his toes. "I'm okay."

"Your Aunt Lisa sounds like a real nice lady."

"I d-don't really remember her. Dad d-didn't . . . I haven't s-seen her since before my mom died."

Vin blinked back a rush of moisture. How many times had he stood in Jonah's shoes, forced to start over, a stranger among strangers? Isolated. Alone. Every time hoping for something better, fearing something worse.

"You're gonna be okay."

Jonah's eyes flashed. "How do you know?"

Vin smiled inwardly at the show of temper. Good. Kid was gonna need it. "'Cause I been where you are, more times than I can count. I know sometimes it feels like the whole world's against you, but you gotta believe you deserve something better."

His lip trembling, Jonah shook his head. "You said that before, b-but . . . I'm n-not sure I do."

"I know." Vin's throat was dry and tight. "You get told you're worthless long enough, you can't help but start to believe it. But I'm tellin' you, Jonah--you can be whatever you want to be. You got that power inside you. I seen it."

Jonah studied his face, searching for the truth. "You did?"

"Saved my life, didn't you?"

"You'd never have gotten shot if it weren't for me." Jonah sucked in a deep breath, his shoulders hitching in a sob. "And I'm s-sorry, Agent T-t-tanner. I'm so, so sorry."

"C'mere." Wincing, Vin snagged Jonah's arm and drew him to sit on the side of the bed. "You stood up for what you knew was right. You went against your own pa to get me help. You think that didn't take guts?"

"You knew. I saw the way y-you l-looked at my d-dad, at me." Jonah swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. "You st-stood up for me. Nobody else ever even noticed--or if they d-did, they p-p-pretended not to. I couldn't j-just let you d-die."

"I'm still here 'cause you stood up for me." Vin cupped the boy's cheek. "Now it's time to start standin' up for yourself. You got a second chance. Don't waste it."

Jonah nodded, fresh tears wetting Vin's fingertips before he brushed them away. "Josiah says my dad never stopped loving me. He says sometimes all the pain and hurt inside a person gets in the way of that, comes spilling out instead."

Something deep inside Vin twisted and broke. "Reckon so."

Chris appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. "Jonah? Your aunt just checked into the hotel. Josiah's going to take you to her."

Jonah looked at Vin for a long moment before nodding his head. "Okay."

Holding up his hand, Vin hooked his thumb with Jonah's, clasping tight. "Have a good trip."

"I will." Jonah stood and ducked his head. "Could . . . That is . . . Agent Tanner, w-would it b-be okay if I write to you?"

He smiled. "Only if you call me Vin. Josiah's got my email."

"Thanks . . . Vin." Jonah's smile trembled. "For everything."

"Watch your back, pard."

"You too."

When he knew Jonah was gone, Vin closed his eyes, taking slow deep breaths as he worked to regain control over the feelings churning inside him. After a few minutes he heard familiar footsteps approach the bed. 

"I'm sorry, Chris." He kept his eyes closed, horrified when his voice cracked. "I had no call to--"

"You going to press that damn button now or do I have to arm wrestle you for it?" Gruff and tender at the same time, Chris's growl was exactly what he needed.

Opening his eyes, he glared and pressed the button. "Only way I'm gonna get you off my back. Bossy son of a bitch." The grumble was forced, but it felt good. So did the warm current that flooded his body, easing the daggers in his chest.

"Are you okay?" Chris took Jonah's place on the mattress, eyeing Vin until he squirmed under the scrutiny. 

"I'm fine--why wouldn't I be?"

Chris didn't answer, just plucked the damp cloth off the bedside table and wiped tear tracks from Vin's face.

"Thanks." He was suddenly weary to the bone, his eyelids gaining weight with every passing second.

"Don't know what you said to him, but it was the right thing."

It took his fuzzy brain a moment to decipher Chris's words. "Jonah?"

"Yeah. You two must have had quite the talk."

"Reckon we straightened out a few things."

Chris nodded. "Reckon you did. He walked in here like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, but he came out . . ."

"Free." The corners of Vin's mouth turned up as his eyes fluttered shut. "Think he's gonna be okay."

"Yeah." Gentle hands pulled the blankets up and smoothed the hair back from his face. "So will you, pard. I promise."

If there was one thing Vin knew he could count on, it was Chris's promises. Wrapped in that warmth and security, he let go and drifted away.


	13. Chapter 13

"Don't move."

"Aw hell, Buck! I ain't helpless."

"An' I ain't stupid. The doc cut you loose on the condition you take it easy and don't overexert yourself."

"Overexert myself? I was just gettin' out of the damn truck!"

"Not without help, you ain't. Now stay put; I'm comin' around. J.D., grab his duffel from the back."

"Got it."

Buck scooted around the hood and tugged open the passenger door. Despite Vin's muttered curses, his face looked pinched, his jaw tight with discomfort. He caught his breath, swaying a bit when his feet touched the ground.

"Easy, Junior. I got ya." 

Since looping Vin's arm over his shoulder would be torture on healing chest muscles, Buck grasped his friend around the waist, supporting him as best he could. They shuffled toward the house, Vin leaning more heavily into Buck with each step. J.D. zipped past them, the duffel clutched in one hand, Vin's prescriptions in the other.

"One day at a time," Buck murmured, seeing Vin's wistful expression. "You'll be givin' him a run for his money 'fore you know it."

"Sick of this." The wispy complaint belied the depth of frustration Buck could read in every line of Vin's body.

"You got a right to be. But you've come a long way, pard. When I think how you looked when we found you . . ." He broke off, sorry he'd resurrected the image in his own mind, as well as Vin's. Looking up, he saw Chris standing in the open doorway, smiling. "Heads up, Larabee! Got a special delivery for ya."

"It's about time. Expected you boys nearly an hour ago."

"Backup at the pharmacy." Buck squeezed them through the doorway, feeling the faint tremors as Vin fought to stay on his feet. "Where do you want him?"

"Got the guest bed all made up."

" _He"_ can speak for himself." Vin somehow managed to straighten up. "No bed. Couch."

Buck looked at Chris, who shrugged and followed them down the hall. Somehow by the time they reached the den they'd picked up Josiah, Nathan, and Ezra. Mild chaos ensued as the five men practically tripped over each other in an effort to be useful.

When Buck lowered Vin to the cushions his friend was panting, damp curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. He seemed to fade out for a bit, passively allowing Josiah to tug off his shoes, Ezra to arrange pillows, and Chris and Buck to ease him into a supine position while Nathan supervised the whole operation. He rallied when J.D. thrust a glass of water and two pain pills in his face, waving them all off with a snarl.

"Got fussed over enough in the hospital. Give me some space, damn it."

Buck took the glass and pills from J.D. as the others, with the exception of Chris, tactfully withdrew. "Now that's the ornery cuss we all know and love. Here--you look ready to chew through tin foil."

Vin shoved aside the outstretched hand, sloshing water onto Buck's wrist. "I'm fine; I don't need that shit."

Snorting, Buck rolled his eyes. "Yeah. White's a real good color on you."

"Shut up, Buck."

"Vin."

Buck watched, fascinated, as Chris locked eyes with their sharpshooter and a silent conversation crackled in the air. Chris gave a slight tilt of his head. Vin compressed his lips to a thin line. Chris quirked an eyebrow. Vin briefly closed his eyes, then ruefully shook his head and held out a hand.

"Gimme the damn pills."

Dropping them into his palm, Buck huffed, "You boys are downright scary sometimes--you know that?"

"You need to eat somethin' with those," Nathan warned from his perch on an armchair.

Vin screwed up his face. "Not hungry."

J.D. stopped playing with the television remote to stare. "Wow. I never thought I'd hear those words from you, Vin."

"It would seem to signal an impending apocalypse," Ezra agreed, pouring himself a glass of wine.

"I know the drugs mess with your stomach," Nate said, "but your body needs fuel. If you don't eat, you ain't gonna heal." 

"I said I'm not hungry! Jeez, y'all sound like a buncha old women the way you . . ." Trailing off, he sniffed. "Is that Josiah's chili?"

Ezra raised his wineglass to Vin in a mock salute. "Your sense of smell is as acute as your eyesight, Mr. Tanner."

Josiah leaned in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. "Change your mind about dinner, brother?"

"Now wait a minute! The man just got outta the hospital after a major trauma. You feed him that five-alarm chili an' he'll be sick as a dog."

"Damn it, Nate! First you tell me I gotta eat 'n now you won't let me." Vin might have been trying for a scowl, but it looked suspiciously like a pout.

"I'm just sayin' you need to take it easy, stick with foods that ain't so spicy right now."

"I been eatin' that tasteless hospital crap for nearly two weeks! I deserve some real food."

"Which is why I made Vin his own batch, easy on the chili powder." Josiah's tone was decidedly smug.

Vin's wide grin lit up his pale face. "Thanks, 'siah."

He began to struggle upright, but Buck stopped him with a firm hand to the chest. "You just lay back and rest, Junior. We'll bring you a tray."

"Aw, Buck!"

"Don't 'Aw, Buck' me. Last thing you need is to be sittin' up on one of them torture devices Chris calls a kitchen chair."

"There's always a seat for you outside, Buck," Chris growled.

Buck gave Vin a conspiratorial look. "See? He knows it's true."

Not about to be so easily distracted, Vin persisted. "Chris, I can--"

"He's right, Cowboy. Stay put. I'll be back in a few."

Cursing under his breath, Vin slumped back against the pillows. Something in his face, in the edge to his voice, stopped Buck from following the others to the kitchen. He sat on the coffee table opposite the couch while Vin glared out the window, doing his best to ignore him.

"Hey."

"Better watch yourself. You know Chris don't like people sittin' on that table."

"What's goin' on with you?"

"Not much, thanks to y'all."

"You know what I mean."

Pulling his gaze from the deepening twilight, Vin heaved a sigh. "Go 'n get yourself somethin' to eat, Bucklin. I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Look here, Vin . . ." Buck studied his clasped hands, carefully choosing his words. "I know we can be a damned irritating bunch of mother hens, but . . . we thought we'd lost ya, pard."

Vin's jaw dropped and his eyes went wide and defenseless. "I guess I don't know what it was like standin' in your shoes."

"And I hope you never do."

"Sorry for bein' a pain in the ass. I just . . . I ain't used to havin' anyone who gives a shit. From the time I was a little feller, I learned to depend on myself. I don't know any other way."

Buck's throat tightened painfully. "Well you'd best get used to it. You ain't alone anymore; you got family."

Vin suddenly seemed fascinated by the frayed edge of his tee shirt. "Reckon I need to be reminded of that now 'n then."

Buck patted his knee. "No charge."

"Buck! Get your ass off my coffee table. Does it look like a bench to you?"

Buck could've kissed Larabee for the grin he'd put on Vin's face. "Busted," his friend muttered.

Within minutes Nathan had tucked an extra pillow behind Vin's back, Chris settled a tray across his lap, and J.D. was asking what he wanted to drink.

Braced for another show of temper, Buck was pleased when Vin gave the kid a sly smile and said, "I'll take one of those—"  
indicating the beer bottle in J.D.'s hand.

"Oh no you won't!" Nathan set down his own bowl with a thump and stabbed a finger at Vin. "You got a death wish or somethin'? First you're tryin' to give yourself an ulcer an' now you want to mix alcohol and pills? You just . . ." He narrowed his eyes when Vin lost his poker face and began laughing.

"Made you look."

"Smart ass." But Nathan's voice held amusement, not irritation.

"Here." Chris placed a bowl of chili into Buck's hands as the others settled onto couches and the floor, squabbling good-naturedly over the television channel.

"Thanks." Buck frowned. "Ain't this yours?"

"I'll get myself some more." Chris looked pointedly over Buck's shoulder to where Vin was eating chili and chuckling at one of J.D.'s lame jokes. "You earned it."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chris came awake quickly, all senses on alert. After a moment he heard it again--the subtle creak of one of the boards in the hallway's hardwood floor. He looked at the red LED display on his alarm clock: 2:36.

Shit.

Vin seemed at peace during dinner. Whatever magic words Buck had used, he'd shed his dark mood, polishing off half a bowl of chili, a chunk of corn bread, and a scoop of cookie dough ice cream. ESPN was on the big screen TV, Buck, J.D., and Ezra were in rare form, and though Vin hadn't said much, he'd soaked up the celebratory atmosphere with a bemused smile.

The Rockies were down by two at the seventh inning stretch, Buck was regaling them with his latest conquest, and Chris had glanced over to find Vin out cold, his ice cream bowl balanced precariously on his lap, the spoon clutched loosely in one hand.

For a split second he saw not the contentedly sleeping Vin on his couch, but the unconscious, bleeding Vin in the cellar. Then a warm hand had touched his shoulder and the apparition vanished. Chris had blinked, a shiver racing up his spine. 

If Josiah noticed his reaction, he'd given no indication. "I think that's our cue to leave," he'd said, his fingers tightening briefly. "I'll give you a hand getting sleeping beauty into bed."

Vin was so far under that he'd never really awakened, despite their manhandling. Chris had hoped it was a sign he'd sleep through the night.

Evidently not.

Rubbing his eyes, Chris snagged sweatpants and a tee shirt from the end of the bed. Rather than turning on a lamp, he navigated by memory and the bright patches of moonlight that spilled in through the windows. He traveled the circuit from hallway, to kitchen, to den, and was feeling the first tendrils of unease, when a flicker of movement on the deck caught his eye.

Scooping up the quilt from the back of the couch, he slipped out the sliding door. Vin huddled on a chaise lounge, staring at the empty corral. His hair was still damp with sweat, his eyes haunted.

Chris dumped the blanket in Vin's lap. "You wind up with pneumonia on my watch and Nathan'll shoot me."

Drawing the quilt around his shoulders, Vin didn't reply. Chris sat on the edge of a chair, letting the silence grow thick between them before trying again.

"Nightmare?"

After a long pause, Vin sighed. "Never understood why folks ask a question when they already know the answer."

"Think it's called an icebreaker." Chris leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I'm worried about you, pard."

"No need. I'm fine."

"You and I got real different ideas about what that word means." Chris stood and walked into the house, feeling Vin's startled gaze on his back.

Heading straight to the bar, he grabbed two shot glasses and the unopened bottle of Glenfiddich he'd been saving for a special occasion. At the door he hesitated, hearing clearly in his head what Nathan would have to say about Vin mixing pain pills and single malt whiskey. Wincing, he yanked the door open and stepped outside.

Vin's head snapped around as he approached, surprise written in his wide eyes. "Thought you went back to bed."

"Thought wrong." Chris poured a shot into each glass, handing one to Vin before sinking back into his chair. Setting the bottle on the deck, he knocked back the contents of his glass, sighing at the welcome warmth that spread through his body. "Good stuff."

Vin's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "You're ridin' my ass about not dressin' warm enough, but you're pouring me a shot?"

"I'm fulfilling my part of our agreement."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"In the cellar I asked if you wanted to talk about what happened when you were a kid. You said you'd have to be three sheets to the wind first. I said I'd arrange it." Chris nodded at Vin's glass. "Drink up."

Vin hesitated only a moment before tossing back his drink. Licking his lips, he gestured at the bottle. "You must've had that hidden or Ezra would've gotten to it before now."

"Bottom cabinet, in the back," Chris said. "Ready to start talking?"

"Way I remember it, that was your agreement, not mine."

Chris poured two more shots. "When's the last time you slept more than a few hours at a time? You need to talk, Vin. If not to me, then to someone else."

Vin took a swallow, closing his eyes. "You don't know what you're asking."

"You sure about that? Case you haven't noticed, I don't make a practice of bearing my soul."

"Now that you mention it." Vin drained the glass and opened his eyes. "Must be in worse shape 'n I thought. Ain't gonna take much," he said, a slight slur to the words.

"You told Jonah you'd been in his shoes."

"Yeah." Vin rolled the empty glass between his palms. "Was younger 'n he is--'bout nine, I guess."

"Foster home?"

"Yeah." 

"I'm listening."

Blowing out a long breath, Vin set down the glass. "I was five when my ma died. She'd been sick for quite a while--cancer, I think. There was only ever me an' her, so once she was gone, I had no one."

"Father?"

"Never in the picture. Like I said, it was just Ma an' me."

"So you were placed in a foster home."

Vin snorted. "Best make that plural."

"How many?"

"Not exactly sure. Four, maybe five by the time I came to live with the Kesslers." He smiled, but bitterness lurked behind it. "Had some problems adjustin'."

"You'd lost everything," Chris said quietly. "How does anyone adjust to something like that?"

Looking intently at him, Vin nodded. "I kinda clammed up at first, wouldn't talk to no one. That, 'n the fact I couldn't read, got the other kids to pickin' on me. Which just gave me more reason to keep to myself." He huffed. "No matter what I did, it was wrong. If I steered clear of the other kids, I was sulkin'. If I stood up for myself, I was a troublemaker.

"Ben 'n Molly Kessler . . ." Vin trailed off, chewing his lip. 

Scooping up his glass, he held it out to Chris, who hesitated, then poured a little more. Vin drained it in a single gulp, his hand shaky as he set it down--though Chris wasn't sure whether to attribute the unsteadiness to whiskey or emotion.

"Ben 'n Molly Kessler had one son, David, 'bout five years older n' me. Not sure why they started takin' in foster kids--but I can guess. Ben was a foreman at a tool 'n die factory. Times was hard 'n money was tight. A monthly foster care allowance can be stretched pretty far if you get clothes from Goodwill and see that no one eats too much."

"Wait a minute. You think they took the money the state meant for your food and clothing and used it for themselves?"

Vin shook his head, clearly amused by Chris's ignorance. "They'd've been in good company if they did. Lots of folks do it, Chris."

Chris scowled but said nothing.

"There were two other state kids 'sides me--Katie and LeAnn. They were both quite a bit younger, an' Molly doted on 'em. Lookin' back, I think she must've always wanted a daughter. Not sure why they never had more kids of their own. Couldn't, I reckon.

"Things was okay at first. Ben was real strict, but as long as I kep' my head down and stayed outta the way, we got along. There was never any question as to who mattered, though. Both Ben n' Molly thought the sun rose 'n set on David. To hear them tell it he was movie-star handsome, a future Olympic athlete, and Albert Einstein all rolled into one. They thought he could do no wrong." Vin's lip curled. "Probably why he was such a prick."

"He gave you a hard time?"

Vin shrugged. "Some. Ignored us, mostly. Liked to call us 'strays.' Not in front of his folks, though."

"His dad didn't beat on him?"

"Ben didn't beat on any of us--at first. He could be . . . I saw the way he was, with David, an' I thought maybe if I tried real hard . . ." Vin looked away, his throat working. "I was a stupid little kid. Took me a while to figure out Ben'd never see no one but David."

Chris wanted to argue, to tell Vin it was never stupid to crave love and approval, but he feared it might cause his friend to shut down just when they were getting somewhere. "What changed?" he asked quietly.

"Turned out David weren't so perfect after all. After I'd been there 'bout a year, he an' some other kids got liquored up and decided to drag race. Car hit a tree at 60 miles an hour. All of 'em died."

"Damn." Chris rubbed a hand along his jaw. "I'm surprised the state didn't pull you out of there."

"They wanted to. Ben 'n Molly begged 'em to let us stay. Said they'd lost part of their family 'n didn't want to lose the rest. Guess they were pretty convincing 'cause the caseworker let us be. If she'd've stuck to her guns . . ." Vin curled his hands into fists. "I went through hell 'cause the woman fell for a sob story."

"You said 'I.'" Chris felt his way carefully, as if walking on thin ice. "What about the girls?"

"Never laid a finger on 'em. It was me. Always me." He looked at Chris with the eyes of that bewildered child. "He'd always had a short temper when he'd been drinkin', an' he started drinkin' a lot. I tried not to get him riled but . . . but just the sight of me was enough."

"What did he do?" When Vin didn't answer, Chris leaned closer. "Talk to me, pard."

"Started out as just words. Callin' me a bastard. Sayin' I was stupid, couldn't even read as well as Katie an' LeAnn. That no one wanted me. That nobody'd gave a shit if I lived or died."

"Son of a bitch."

"I tried so hard to please him, 'an sometimes it was like he'd forget and treat me real nice. Come to one of my games or take me with him when he did errands. But the more he drank, the angrier he got. Wasn't long before he started usin' his fists." Vin chuckled, the sound like broken glass. "He was smarter 'n Sinclair, though. Always made sure the bruises didn't show."

"Where the hell was his wife? Didn't she try to stop him?"

Vin blinked, looking surprised by the force of Chris's anger. "A time or two, at first. He didn't much cotton to her interferin'. Gave her a taste of what I was gettin' an' she shut up real quick. An' he said if I told anyone else he'd take it out on the girls."

"After a while, I stopped bein' scared and started gettin' pissed. I tried to hide it from him, but he must've seen it in my eyes. That's when he got the idea . . ." A shiver worked its way through Vin, and he folded his arms around himself.

"Vin?"

He shook his head. "I can't, Chris."

Hell. Chris moved to the lounge chair and snugged his shoulder against Vin's. "You can. It happened a long time ago, Cowboy. It's just a memory."

He heard the dry click as Vin swallowed. "The house had--" He swallowed again. "--it h-had an attic. Ben st-stored old clothes an' junk up there. There was a tr-trap door in the closet with a pull-down ladder. " He licked his lips. "One day he told me to bring down a box. The trap d-door slipped shut, an' I panicked. It was so fuckin' dark you c-couldn't see your hand in front of your f-f-face. By the time Ben got me out, I was practically bawlin' like a b-baby."

Stunned by the uncharacteristic stutter, Chris watched Vin from the corner of his eye, resisting the urge to turn his head. His friend was rocking back and forth, still wrapped in his own arms.

"Guess that's when he g-got the idea to l-l-lock me in there. He couldn't break me with his fists, but I'd beg him not to leave me in there."

Chris's eyes burned. "God, Vin. I'd like to shoot the son of a bitch. How'd you make him stop?"

"He usually only left me for an hour or so. But one day he just . . . he just lost it. Started yellin' that God m-made a m-mistake. That he should've taken me an' not David. He . . . he . . ." Vin shivered so hard the chair rattled. "He locked me up and then he l-l-left. Molly'd taken the girls shoppin' and I was . . . I was alone, an' it was so d-dark, an' . . . It was the middle of summer, Chris. Must've b-been well over a hundred degrees in there. I had no w-water, no . . . I c-c-couldn't breathe." Vin was panting now, lost in the memory.

Chris slipped his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Easy, Vin. Take deep breaths. Slow it down."

As if Chris's voice were an anchor, Vin's respiration slowed. He stopped rocking, though the occasional tremor still stuttered through him. "I'm okay."

But he didn't look okay. He looked like hell. Chris thought about what Nathan would do to him if he could see Vin now--clammy, shivering, just a step from shock. With a cocktail of leftover pain pills and single malt whiskey in his system. Murder would be too quick--Nathan would want him to suffer.

"Molly finally came home an' found me. I was pretty far gone--I'd p-passed out in my own puke an' she couldn't really get me to wake up. She got scared and took me to the emergency room."

"Heat exhaustion," Chris murmured. "You could've died."

"Ben tried to pass it off as an accident. Said I must've been playin' up there an' got locked in. But the doc had already seen the bruises. My caseworker packed up my clothes an' stuff while I was still in the hospital. I never saw Ben, Molly, or the girls again." No longer trembling, Vin leaned more heavily into Chris's grip. 

"It's no wonder you got spooked in that cellar."

"Thought maybe it would fade over time." Vin yawned, his words coming slower and with greater effort. "But closed in places--it's like I’m back in the attic all over again."

"You were a brave kid, making it through all that."

"Yeah, well . . . I was pretty screwed up fer a while. Ran away from the next foster home and ended up on the streets. Did stuff I ain't proud of."

"Most of us have."

Vin yawned again. "All I ever wanted was a place I could feel safe. Took a long time fer me to be able to trust anyone." Vin chuckled softly. "Still workin' on that."

"That's why you insist on living in Purgatorio," Chris said, seeing Vin's ratty apartment in a whole new light. "To give those kids a refuge they can count on, no matter what."

"An' here I thought you was just a pretty face." Vin sighed. "Tired."

"Think you can sleep now?"

"Don't think you could stop me."

Chris stood and held out his hand, but Vin shook his head. "Gonna bunk out here fer now. Fresh air'll do me good."

Understanding, Chris didn't argue. "You gonna be warm enough?" he asked, watching Vin cocoon himself in the quilt and stretch out on the cushions.

"Snug as a bug." 

"Need me to hang around?"

"Nah. Reckon I could use a little space."

"You know where to find me."

Chris collected the bottle and glasses and headed for the house.

"Chris." Vin was bathed in shadow, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He pulled open the door, but paused, remembering a beloved ritual from what seemed a lifetime ago. "Vin?"

"Yeah?"

"Sweet dreams."


	14. Epilogue

"Take it easy. We're in no hurry."

Vin rolled his eyes at Chris, but eased back on Peso's reins. "You worry too much."

"You push too hard."

With grins that acknowledged the truth in both accusations, they rode in companionable silence, allowing the horses to pick their way up the steep incline. Chris studied Vin with his peripheral vision, reassured by the easy curve of his friend's body and the healthy color in his cheeks. Six weeks since the shooting and Vin was due back at work on Monday--desk duty, for now, but at the rate he was healing he'd be back to full strength in no time.

"You're doin' it again."

"What?" A little embarrassed to be caught woolgathering, Chris turned toward his friend.

"You keep watchin' me like you expect I'll break to pieces. I'm fine, Chris."

"I know." And he did, in his head. But after all that had happened, his heart was taking a little longer to catch up.

Gray was turning to pale pink at the horizon when they rounded the hill's crest. Chris gazed at the panorama of wooded foothills and snowcapped peaks, drinking in the beauty. Beside him Vin sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, and Chris could almost feel something inside his friend uncoil.

"God, I've missed this."

Chris swung gracefully out of the saddle, tethering Pony to a nearby tree. "Best get moving. It's almost showtime."

Vin slipped from Peso with a slight hitch and a surreptitious rub of his shoulder that Chris chose to ignore. He tied Peso beside Pony, giving a sharp slap to the big black's rump when he nipped at Chris's longsuffering horse.

"Stop that, mule, or Pony'll kick yer ass."

"Think he's suffering from an excess of energy after being cooped up the past few weeks," Chris said, watching Peso nose Vin's pockets until his friend produced pieces of apple for both horses.

"I know the feelin'."

They unpacked a large thermos and a paper sack from the saddlebags, carrying them over to a flat expanse of rock that butted up against the cliff wall. Chris sat, propping his back against the stone and poured the coffee. Vin settled beside him a bit more slowly, and Chris didn't miss the fleeting grimace that flickered across his friend's face.

"Still sore?"

Vin narrowed his eyes but backed off when he saw no judgement in Chris's face. "A little stiff first thing in the morning. It'll loosen up."

He pulled out a doughnut and passed the sack to Chris. They munched on pastries, trading the coffee cup back and forth as the sky turned from pink to gold and the first pale threads of light cast a halo over the distant peaks. Finally the sun crept into view, a bright orange sphere that chased away the shadows and bathed the mountains in fiery brilliance.

"I wasn't sure I'd see that again."

Chris tore his gaze from the spectacle to look at Vin's peaceful face. "Almost didn't."

"Sure as hell wasn't the first time I thought I might die. But it was the first time I really gave a damn whether I did." Vin looked at him, one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. "Not sure what that means."

"Means you've got something worth fighting for. People you care about, and who care about you. Means you've come home."

Vin stared at him for a long moment before nodding. "Reckon so." He paused and his voice turned oddly gentle. "How 'bout you?"

Chris blinked, thrown off balance. "Me?"

"I'm guessin' things was 'bout as bad as they could get after you lost your family. To hear the boys tell it, you were a dead man walkin'."

Chris tensed, fighting the instinctive urge to shut Vin down. "Suppose that's true."

"Can't imagine what it must've been like for you, Cowboy."

The honest pain and empathy in Vin's voice reached deep inside Chris, unlocking a door he'd guarded jealously. "I think you can." When Vin frowned in confusion, he tried to explain. "Josiah said something to me when we still weren't sure if you were going to make it. He said that sometimes the pain in our lives is the strongest tie binding us together. At first it just pissed me off, but . . . maybe he wasn't wrong."

"What're you sayin'? Misery loves company an' we're both pretty damn miserable?"

Chris chuffed, cuffing his friend in the head. "I'm saying that from the very beginning something in me recognized that you'd get it. I could let down my guard, because you wouldn't be shocked at what you'd see."

"Reckon that means maybe you've come home too."

Chris smiled and looked back at the steadily rising sun. "Reckon so." They were quiet for a while before he asked, "Heard from Jonah?"

"'Bout once a week. The jury's still out on California, but he seems to like his new family well enough."

"Orrin said his dad's healing well. They finally transferred him to the county jail. He's cooperating with the police, hoping for a reduced sentence."

"Don't much matter. By the time he gets out Jonah should be able to fend for himself." He drained the last of the coffee and handed the cup to Chris.

"Looks like you're sleeping better," Chris said, closing the thermos.

"Talkin' helped." He gave Chris a wry grin. "Guess it was worth Nathan chewin' your ass for gettin' me wasted."

"Anytime, pard."

"Same goes for you, you know. My whiskey ain't as high priced, but the door's always open."

"Might just take you up on that."

When the sun was well over the distant peaks, Vin stood and extended his hand. 

Chris groaned as he was pulled to his feet. "It's hell getting old."

Eyes twinkling, Vin shrugged. "I dunno. These days it don't look so bad."

 _Damn straight,_ Chris thought gratefully.

Still clasping forearms, they grinned at each other. Chris tipped his head toward the horses. "What do you say we give that troublemaker of yours a chance to blow off some steam?"

He was rewarded when Vin's face lit up with delight. "I'm with you, partner. All the way."

Chris clapped him on the back. "Let's ride."


End file.
